Tag Archives: Singapore

Nanyin Concert at Singapore’s Oldest Temple

Sketching has its perks, specially in this country because you get invited to all sorts of interesting events, that you otherwise wouldn’t have a clue about. Well, it might not be entirely true for everybody, considering how well networked and resourceful some people are, but being an expatriate trying to get intimate with the country she is living in, invitations to events featuring local history, culture, heritage and people in some way or the other is serendipity dropping into your hands like a ripe plum.

And what better way to explore a country intimately than sketching your backyard and writing about it, specially if it’s a diverse 710 sq km city state, that you can cross via subway in less than two hours! The possibilities are endless, although I didn’t harbour this mindset two years back when like many others I was trapped in the hamster wheel of shopping malls, food courts, boutique cafes and movie theatres. That’s all there is to do in Singapore, I thought.

But somehow, this simple attempt at documenting life through sketching has freed me off the nasty blinkers. Since then, I have befriended locals and heard their stories, observed their diurnal rhythms, their idiosyncrasies, mannerisms, their pidgin lingo, their obsession with food, their materialism and altruism, their traditions and customs – those celebrated widely with pomp across the island as well as those that falter at the brink of oblivion, their collective sense of pride and also their anxiousness, their self expression, their drive to grow, develop, compete and succeed both globally and locally and also their struggle to conserve their identity and heritage in the wake of urbanisation and immigration.

Not just sketching, but sketching with a purpose has opened my eyes.

Artist’s impression of Thian Hock Keng Temple

My sketch reportage of many such events I’d been invited to, though disparate – like recording the make-up session of a Teochew opera group, or trying my hand at wrapping rice dumplings at a Taoist temple, or drinking coffee at a shophouse kopitiam or visiting a heritage Peranakan house and so on – have brought me closer to understanding the country I live in. And what more, the equation is symbiotic – while the invitee gets an interesting premise to sketch and talk about, the inviter gets to promote a cause or create awareness, which brings me to the courtyard of Thian Hock Keng Temple, on 158 Telok Ayer Street, where I along with other fellow sketchers have gathered upon one such invitation – to sketch and see a Nanyin concert performed on the temple premises only thrice a year by Siong Leng Musical Association.

Sitting in a lone corner in the outer courtyard, this girl was practicing her flute right before the concert began.

It is not everyday that you experience centuries old and preserved art form, performed against an equally historic backdrop, so I took the bait the moment it appeared in my newsfeed. The temple’s location couldn’t have been more incongruous, with sparkling high-rises, nifty eateries and watering holes in the vicinity. I wanted to slow down and process the interesting juxtaposition but instead was taking long strides towards the temple, to catch some of the receding light and start sketching before it hit 7. Because at 7 in the evening, the sun goes down in this country, every single day of the year with such mundane consistency that can only be managed if you’re just a degree away from of the equator.

By the time I post myself by a kerb opposite the magnificent facade of the temple, a gigantic truck plonks itself in front and blocks my view. Cars are zipping past and waves of people are making their way from work, without so much as glancing at the imposing green tiled roofs and the multicoloured motifs, the fiery dragons charging at the sky, the carved pillars and the massive red lanterns. It is amusing to even imagine that in 1820, when the temple used to be a humble joss house, early immigrants from Fukien Province in China, who’d voyaged across the turbulent South China Sea, flocked in to offer their gratitude to Ma Zhu – the goddess of the sea, even before they went scouting for work and shelter. Before land reclamation of 1880, Telok (bay in Malay) Ayer( water in Malay) was the seafront!

From where I stand, I can see plastic chairs being arranged and the stage being set up for the concert. TV crews are interviewing the organisers and the glare from their portable LED light is gushing out through the massive wooden doors and blinding my vision. Dodging the parked truck and the dazzling light, I further shift my vantage point and begin sketching the facade. But darkness has fallen on the city. I struggle to capture the relief patterns on the roof ridges that have been rendered using chien nien technique, a Fujian architectural style, which involves breaking unusable pottery and porcelain to create beautiful three-dimensional work.

That’s when Paul, a fellow urban sketcher quipped, “Don’t go for the details, try to capture the essence”. He made it look simple with his casual yet bold strokes that told the story and held it back at the same time for the onlooker to be amused and bemused – a dab of yellow for the blinding light, few sinuous strokes for the temple’s roof, some dark shadows around the threshold and so on. But for some, simplifying isn’t all that simple. The left brain kicks up a storm when you try working at a scene holistically, leaving hints here and there like breadcrumbs leading to a revelation, rather than getting sucked into the details and showing all your cards. The left brain implores you to mark and annotate every stone, tile, wood and all the amazing carvings, intricate sculptures, imposing columns and the decorations with dragons and phoenixes. I try to heed Paul’s advice and try to sketch and paint from what I feel, rather than what I see or straining to see. It isn’t easy.

In the temple courtyard, a stage has been set with mikes, stools, projectors and floodlights, the participants are hustling up, some donning make-up, some straightening the creases of their flowing costumes and fixing their hair. A volunteer hurriedly places the concert schedule on every chair. The musical instruments – pie, pipa, samhen, xiao, lihen are lined at the corner, waiting to be picked up. Guests are streaming in, taking places incoherently. A young girl, away from the action is practicing her bamboo flute and shaking her head in indignation, every time she hits a wrong note.

Nanyin in progress. The audience is enthralled.

Nanyin in progress. The audience is captivated.

Nanyin, which literally means the ‘music of the south’ has originated from the southern Chinese province of Fujian and is one of the oldest music genres of China that still exists. The music is soft, gentle and graceful – something that would seep through the pores of your skin and serenade you and fill your senses to the hilt. As the music trickled into the temple’s ancient courtyard, the audience – a motley crew of young and old, locals and foreigners, residents and tourist – sat enthralled and motionless, which was perfect for sketching.

Understanding the lyrics would’ve heightened my experience, because most of the time it felt like standing at the edge of an alluring pool and not knowing how to swim. Perhaps, my inability kept me rooted to the task at hand without getting emotionally invested. On that night, I let the music guide my pen.

Nanyin performers at Thian Hock Keng

Visiting Singapore’s Baba House

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Facade of Baba House, drawn with a bamboo stick

The Setting

The old British couple was posted right before a dark wooden cupboard. An American man, probably in his middle age was sitting on a decorative oriental chair, hunched over a notepad and pen, the Russian dame in a sleeveless maxidress was leaning against the heavy ornamental door, arms akimbo and a fidgety Spanish duo of mother and daughter with disheaveled hair and brutally sunburnt arms and face was just waiting for it to start and then finish, so they could go back to their hotel, put a tick on their list of things to visit in Singapore and order room service. Then there was the suave Australian couple – the man in a tailored suit and the blond woman in a red dress with long distracting legs emerging from it, poised on the short rotund chairs in the middle of the room. I was of course with my sketchbook and pen lingering at the back, trying to read them as much as they would let me.

It felt like walking into one of those penultimate scenes in the small screen adaptations of Agatha Christie stories, where the inimitable Poirot has called upon the suspects in the living room so he could unfurl the mystery. My ears are almost tuned in to hear the rising crescendo of David Suchet’s voice – “Mesdames et Messieurs, it’s time to reveal the truth about this terrible crime” – and finally pinning down the murderer – “After everybody left, it was you Mr. Doyle, who picked up the gun, ran along the deck and shot your wife in her sleep.”

A tap on the shoulder requesting me to deposit my bag before the tour, broke my post-lunch reverie. Egg-headed Poirot had been replaced by grey-haired Chia Hock Jin, our amicable tour guide and I along with the other ‘suspects’ were crowding inside the remarkably restored living room of ‘Baba House’, the ancestral home ( built around 1895) of a wealthy Peranakan shipping merchant Wee Bin.

The Peranakan Story

Having introduced himself, Hock Jin warmed us up with a short history of the Peranakans, which started with the settling of Chinese merchants in the Straits of Malacca during the 15th century, who began integrating certain traits of local Malayan culture into their own Chinese heritage, thus giving birth to a distinctive hybrid culture with an identity of its own. By the 19th century, the Peranakans were mostly working as intermediaries between the mainland Chinese traders and the Dutch, Portuguese and British colonial traders, thus amassing immense wealth, which they spent lavishly in building such elaborately decorated houses. “They were sending their children to English medium schools rather than Chinese schools, or abroad for tertiary education or professional qualifications, so when they were back they could join the British administration.” said Hock Jin with arms deep inside his trouser pockets.

The Facade

Leading us out of the drawing room through the main door, Hock Jin insisted, we take a closer look at the cobalt blue facade of the house with red gable and pitch roof, and not just admire its many architectural components for their beauty but understand their significance and symbolism as well. “Houses in those days were not numbered, so to understand who lived where, all you had to do was look at the facade”, he says, pointing at the two lanterns which have the origin of the family and surname of the resident written on them in winding strokes. The Chinese signboard with golden characters above the main door spell out the name of the house – ‘Everlasting Prosperity’. Motifs of peonies and phoenix on the facade, signify prosperity, peace, good wealth and luck. Hock Jin has been cupping a canary yellow ceramic bowl, which he suddenly holds out in public view. “Notice those friezes below the louvered windows? Those were made from tiny ceramic chips of different colours.”

The facade seems deceptively narrow for its wealthy owners but Hock Jin reassures that the house is much longer inside than what its entrance suggests. “During the Dutch rule, property owners were taxed as per the width of the frontage”.

Hock Jin standing in front of the Living Room alter

Living Room

“The living room is where the patriarch entertains his guests” begins our guide as we make our way inside again. Ornately carved Qing dynasty blackwood furnitures with mother of pearl inlay frames border the room on all sides giving it a rich luxurious feel; dainty ceramic vases, porcelain figurines and crockery adorn the corners atop side tables and cupboards; decorative venetian mirrors hang from the walls, an Austrian round table and chairs set, popular in the 19th century, sits at the centre while one of the four family altars that every Peranakan house must have, is placed at the head of the room facing the main corridor. Despite the heat and humidity outside, the dark interiors help in keeping the temperatures down.

“Feng Shui played an important role in the design of the house in those days. Do you know why there are two side entrances from this drawing room into the house?” Most nod their heads in negative.”So any bad energy that barges into the house through the front door, dissipates before flowing inside.” More fascinating details stumble out of our guide that we greedily lap up – demons tend to shuffle their feet and the high threshold serves as a hurdle for them to trip and fall if they enter the house, or the mirrors are hung so when the demon looks at his reflection, he realises how ugly he is and leaves pronto!

Family Room of Baba House

Family Room

“The women and the children were not allowed in the living room in those days. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t see what was happening here”, says Hock Jin with a obscure smile as he points at the small openings in the carved wooden partition screen dividing the first and the second hall, through which unmarried Nonyas could peep through. The Family Hall was the matriarch’s domain, where the second altar was kept along along with a cupboard that stored ancestral tablets with recordings of the family’s eldest son’s birth details, through several generations. Elaborately painted portraits of the Wee family adorns the walls. The architecture is predominantly tropical with a refreshing airwell on the side that also helps keep the house cool. “This is where the family well was supposed to be but since this house is on a slope, the well is at the back.” explains our guide.

After the extravagant and slightly dark living room, the unexpected indoor-outdoor feel of the family room is refreshing. “Design of Peranakan houses always account for the five elements of Feng Shui – wood, fire, earth, metal and water” says Hock Jin, as we scrutinize the interesting amalgamation of Eastern and Western architectural elements. The colourful tiles lining the wall of the air well were distinctly British, there’s a buddhist swastik in the room and an attractive white panel on the wall with Chinese zodiac signs etched on it.

Kitchen

Kitchen

Hock Jin leads the group from the family room to a surprisingly sparse kitchen with brightly coloured Nonya cooking paraphernalia neatly displayed – lacquered stackable meal containers, scarlet coloured dishes, cups, jars, vases, dessert moulds, a traditional grinding stone along with an oven from yesteryears with metal woks stacked atop, a mortar and pestle, and a blue ceramic kettle. The alter of the kitchen god is affixed to the wall, as if to oversee and bless the laborious cooking of mouthwatering Nonya dishes.

Second Floor Bedrooms

A flight of wooden stairs lead us to the highly polished second floor with more Chinese dark wood furnitures and two bedrooms, one of which is a bridal chamber, dedicated to the 12 day ritual of Peranakan weddings. Just like the living room, the bridal chamber is flamboyant with an exquisitely carved, lacquered and gilded canopied bed from 19th century with motifs featuring fertility symbols. Across the room are several ornate armoires for storing the bride’s sarongs, kebayas, handkerchiefs and so on. The most intriguing feature that hooked the tour group was the peephole on the floor, that gave an unobstructed view of the living room and the main door. “So a Peranakan wife could see all who came to call on her husband.” says Hock Jin to his audience, now sitting on their haunches, trying to shove their face into a tiny gap on the floor.

Bridal Chamber

End of Story? Not quite!

The tour ends on the third floor which houses a contemporary exhibition on Batik. “Please feel free to look around” says, Hock Jin and offers a perfunctory “thank you” for taking his tour, which sends the Spanish mother and daughter scooting down the stairs towards the exit. Others follow, making thumping sounds on the wooden steps as they climb down. But some of us linger around Hock Jin because his eager eyes haven’t dulled yet. He might have more to say if we poke the fire. He begins talking about the Great Depression of 1930s, when prices of tin and rubber on which the Peranakans heavily relied, fell rock bottom. The two world wars dealt heavy blows to Peranakan wealth, status and influence (as loyal British subjects, they contributed to the wars by making considerable donations), when many fell into poverty and had to sell off their landed houses and family heirlooms. “Then came the Rent control Act of 1947” says Hock Jin, pausing briefly. This mandated the rent of pre war houses like this, to be controlled in Singapore, and in effect frozen, resulting in further deterioration of income.

In 1966, Lee Kuan Yew’s government enacted the land acquisition act, to promote urban renewal, which empowered the government to acquire land for compensation, to be paid on a predetermined formula. Pre-war houses made way for high rises. “Many Peranakans converted to Christianity in the 1940s and 50s, women started working after the war and gradually with urbanisation, intermarriages and modernisation, the Peranakan culture stagnated and their identity suffered”, says Hock Jin, with eyes cast on the parquet floor.

Howver, the recent years have marked a conscious revival in all things Peranakan, with the conservation of heritage Straits Chinese buildings, with exhibitions showcasing the Peranakan way of life, with growing interest in the language, food, attire; and with restaurants serving Peranakan cuisine and antique shops selling artefacts such as silverware, beads slippers, porcelain, furnitures etc cropping up across Singapore. “Restoring Baba House and opening it to the public was one such revival effort” says Hock Jin.

Looking up at windows

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I have always been fascinated by windows, although I wonder why? If I’m carrying my art paraphernalia, more often than not, I’ll seize the opportunity of sketching them. And thankfully, there are plenty of alluring windows across the world to keep me busy, from contemporary sleek designs that are minimalist and functional to traditional, ornate and decorative ones with superfuous embellishments.

For example the woven bamboo windows in Japan, Gothic windows, stained glass windows, casements, tilt and turn windows in the West, classical chinese windows, louvered windows in tropical countries or Arab world’s projecting oriel windows enclosed and carved with exotic wood latticework. Some are functional while others are pieces of fine craftsmanship.

But then, could it just be the physical attributes – shape, colour, form, design that render windows as interesting subjects and make them sketchworthy? I reckon, my fascination is beyond the superficial. There must be something deeper.

Besides their make which is anything but monotonous, windows assume a character often borrowed from the environment they are in and evoke an immediate sense of place. Like these louvered windows of Straits Chinese shophouses in Singapore’s Chinatown (in the picture above) which by themselves are interesting no doubt but when laced with a string of red lanterns around their neck, during the ongoing mid-autumn festival, they look bright eyed, coiffed and spruced up. They seem to be rejoicing, perhaps singing a happy song!

In addition to the ethos they live in, windows also assume a character that is refracted by the souls that live behind them, open and close them or peer through them, which could be anything from cheerful to doleful, nifty to sloppy, careful to negligent and is left to the imagination of the onlooker like me to interpret in a hundred ways.

Like this window in Bordeaux, south of France (in the sketch above), that caught my eye not just because of the ornate Gothic architecture encasing it and the filigreed balcony though both make it an attractive subject but because of the colourful pinwheel spinner that separates it from others in the same building. The pinwheel lends it the character of being cheerful, lighthearted, playful, romantic perhaps; and it hints at a story that is open for speculation. Did a little girl tie it there when she was playing in the balcony? or was it relegated as a window decoration by the old man whose grandchildren forgot to pack it in when they left? Maybe the newly weds who just moved in, bought it at the village fair and put it there? I would never know but I adore the touch of mystery that tickles the mind.

I’ve seen windows with clothesline slapped across their chests with pinafores, socks, drawers and vests fluttering in the sun, while many have potted plants and flowers set outside them, or a handcrafted easter egg, a gnome, pair of toads, an wooden owl or a fiery crystal dragon resting on their sil – all lending character, telling stories, making them fascinating to absolute strangers. Some windows have gnarled black cables criscrossing their face while some share a patch of rampant vegetation growing from the corner of a drainpipe running alongside. Sometimes on a chilly winter evening the sight of a half drawn lace curtain inside a glazed casement window, hinting at warm bodies moving unsteadily lets you believe in possibilities as many as your mind can conjure.

Perhaps that is why I am fascinated by windows because not only are they attractive in their own right, they don’t impose on your imagination as rigid unflinching objects, rather feed off it as volatile subjects arousing a multitude of sentiments in each one of us who looks at them with a different eye and that is enough for a creative person to pick up a pen and sketch them pronto.

Sketching Vintage

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‘You have the sexiest babe out here’, I say to Andrew Webster’s face, the moment I walk into him with my sketchbook and pen. He grins. ‘You think so! Well, people do like her colour…but there are many beautiful ladies out here.’ he says modestly and scans the row of luscious dames standing in a neat array with information plates displaying their names, make and other interesting snippets.

National Heritage Board(NHB) of Singapore with Malaysia & Singapore Vintage Car Register (MSVCR) had jointly organised “Motoring Heritage Day 2013”, a spectacular display of 50 vintage and classic cars from the 1930s to 1970s era. The location for the exhibition – the 79 year old art deco Tanjong Pagar Railway Station which had ceased operations two years ago and was gazetted as a national monument – couldn’t have been more befitting.

The day is muggy and grey and the platform is ageing, monochromatic but the burst of colours on the glistening bodies – in sparkling shades of blue, red, yellow, green and so on – along the abandoned railway track is all it takes to swing the mood. Scores of visitors pour in to view the finest, immaculately preserved historic vehicles in Singapore – photographing, videotaping, sketching or just gaping at them, documenting the scene in some way, imprinting in their memory this rare once in a year exhibit.

Some owners of these million dollar beauties sit behind their cars impassively, in mild coloured polo necks matched with a beret, semi-casual shorts and moccasins, smoking cigars, talking about the yesteryears, reminiscing, while others in Tees, sneakers and sombreros make rounds, mingle with the crowd and answer questions.

I have never drawn cars before, but am instantly drawn to these period vehicles. Their exotic features, classy design and scrumptious colours make each one seem like a work of art and immeasurably desirable.

Desire catapults inexperience, and soon enough I start outlining their smooth and flowing bodies with deeply valenced fenders and elegantly cowled back wheels, footboards, long hoods and showy chrome radiator jackets, glass windscreens with sunshades and snug leather seats and the distinctive cockpit-like wooden dashboards. “If I was a guy, I’d marry her’, says an overwhelmed vintage car enthusiast. I’d show her off all the time, if I had one. Wishful thinking! Not only because they are ridiculously expensive to buy and maintain but as per Classic and Vintage Vehicle Schemes in Singapore, there are usage restrictions on these cars as they ‘are not meant to serve day to day transport needs of their owners’. “Many of these cars can be used only upto 28 days in a year.” says the owner of a 1972 Morris Mini 1000. I get back to sketching.

What a joy it is to swerve and glide the pen, outlining the undulating curves, the sinuous stretches and lithe trails that make the retro bodies of these vintage and classic cars. To pick out few favourites, I try to scan the complete row by walking briskly from one end to another, but stop before a 1936 Armstrong Siddley and gape lasciviously at it before moving on to a 1969 Aston Martin DB6 which gets my pulse racing; then double back to catch the 1973 Volkswagen Beetle Cabriolet that I had missed, turn mushy, slowly tear away and forge ahead till the end with many such intermittent stops.

I am spurred on to get all 50 cars down in my sketchbook, but my hands don’t move fast enough, in fact they turn clammy when I panic about the lack of enough time, my perspective goes awry, too many people block the view, pushing and shoving and then comes the rain – the hard hitting tropical rain that wipes out spectators, dulls the fun and drowns my plan.

To escape the rain, we climb the sprawling platform and join the car owners now eating lunch out of plastic trays, still posted dutifully behind their vehicles. The rain hardly perturbs their composure. But the inclement weather lets me appreciate the rear of the vehicles which is no less striking than the front. I take out my tools and resume sketching. Andrew is happy with my pen-and-ink rendition of his bright red 1938 MGTA Midget and flips open his iPad to take a picture. “There’s another one down this line that I own. Want to take a look?”.

Singapore – Moscow – St.Petersburg – Moscow – Singapore

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Itchy feet strike again.

I am accompanying my husband on his official trip to Russia for 9 days and that up there will be my itinerary. The plan is, on the days he doesn’t work, we’ll explore the sights together and the days he works – which is most of the time – I will be on my own on the streets of Russia with a sketchbook and a map. Mixed feelings! On my own I’d amble along the streets without an itinerary, direction or purpose, just soaking up history and culture as it comes. But trying to record the sights and experiences in sketches, requires planning and a certain amount of alertness. The former is convenient, the latter is revelatory.

Packing for Russia

However, this isn’t the first time I plan to sketch while travelling. I’ve done it before in Cambodia, Japan and Malaysia, though with trepidation and on a very small scale. I was disorganised, clueless and conscious of people watching me and judging my craft. It was more like testing the waters before taking the plunge. If ‘testing the waters’ mean everything from timing my sketches, revising the itinerary to include that time to analysing the patience threshold of my travel companion while I take sketch breaks every 2mins; by ‘the plunge’ I mean an exhaustive record of my trip in sketches, no matter what.

And I am consciously moving towards that other end of the spectrum because for travellers like us, who prefer gallivanting across cities on tight itineraries, adding another element such as sketching slows us down no doubt, but isn’t counter productive.

‘Travelling is like pressing the reset button’, said a travel writer on TV the other day. So, I’m banking on Russia to clear my mind and reboot my machine, so I return home fresh and renewed. Catching a glimpse of Snowden would have been a bonus but we’re landing at the Domodedovo airport.

Wrapping sticky rice dumplings at an old Chinese temple

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One of the quickest, most authentic and fun way to get intimate with a city is to speak with the taxi drivers. Seriously, two strangers stuck in a vehicle for a while might as well talk and if possible learn something from each other. It might be an anomaly in many parts of the world, but most taxi drivers in Singapore are amicable and have given me the lowdown on everything from local food, culture, religion to people and politics. Even job leads and life wisdom, though unsolicited.

'The general of the north' - a revered Taoist deity in the Xuan Dian Jian temple, Singapore

‘The general of the north’ – a revered Taoist deity in the Xuan Jiang Dian temple, Singapore

Naturally I had no qualms about asking my cab driver the legend behind Duanwu festival, also known as the Dragon Boat Festival or rice dumpling festival, to which I was headed. The venue was Xuan Jiang Dian, an eighty-plus-year-old Chinese temple atop a hill at 85 A Silat Road, where a group of us were invited to hang out, sketch and watch the making of rice dumplings and eat them, of course. “Why don’t you check the story on the internet?”, asked the cab driver.

I could but I pressed him to narrate. Because a folklore is desultory when read in black and white. Because a folklore needs a voice to come alive, its inflection to set the mood and often a pinch of hyperbole to build momentum and pique the right amount of interest.

Sticky rice dumplings wrapped in bamboo leaves

When we stopped at the second signal, he began with the disclaimer that there are more than one version of the story. I nodded in eagerness, while he cleared his throat. “Long, long ago , an honourable Chinese minister who’d offended the king, was banished from court. In despair the minister committed suicide by drowning himself in the river on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month. When locals failed to find the body, they rowed their boats into the river, beating their drums loudly and splashing their paddles on water to scare the fish. Some dropped sticky rice dumplings wrapped in bamboo leaves into the river to feed the fish and keep them from devouring his body.”

“Fascinating!”. But when did this happen? Who was the minister?” Which river did he drown in? I was curious.

“Dunno lah! All I know, is every year on fifth day of the fifth month of the Chinese lunar calendar, which is…June 12th this year, we race dragon boats and eat sticky rice dumplings for a month.”

Volunteers at the temple wrapping the sticky rice dumplings

Volunteers at the temple wrapping sticky rice dumplings

The temple was a sight to behold, with bright red lanterns, fiery looking dragons with long tails and formidable statues of Xuan Tiang Shang Ti, the resident deity, also known as the general of the north, dressed in imperial clothes, residing inside one of the most exquisite lacquered alters, I have ever seen. With his red face, large bulging eyes and long flowing beard, he is supposedly one of the most revered Taoist deities. “Notice that his right foot is on a snake and the left one is on a turtle”, said Victor Yue, a salt and pepper haired Engineer who’s a Chinese temple geek, and an excellent storyteller.

Aheng who's taking it easy with a cigerette between his fingers, is actually the temple's spirit medium who goes into a trance twice a week and offers consultation to devotees on their issues ranging form medical, marital to spiritual.

Ah Heng, who’s taking it easy with a cigerette between his fingers, is actually this Taoist temple’s spirit medium who goes into a trance twice a week and offers consultation to devotees on their issues ranging form medical, philosophical to spiritual.

When I started picking his brain, Victor fed my curiosity with an enthralling tour of the temple and a crash course on Taosim and spirit mediums such as Ah Heng (see my sketch above) who are consuted on a regular basis by devotees to cure their ailments. The only thing that distracted me from our intense spiritual discussion was the smell of rice dumplings. Two volunteers had fixed themselves a make shift rice dumpling station on plastic chairs with a basket of steamed bamboo leaves, a tray each of rice, cooked mushrooms and pork.

When friends tease and taunt you with stories of how hard it is to wrap a rice dumpling, how mothers and grandmothers still do it with ease and finesse and they can’t make it happen after years of practice; you are naturally instigated to try wrapping at least one and see for yourself, rather than agreeing like an idiot. When I hovered around the fringes of the crime scene, the volunteers dared me. “Want to try?” They were wearing surgical gloves and bandanas. “Go wash your hand first.”

Hanging the finished dumplings on the steel rod, to be boiled later.

The bamboo leaves are soaked in water before they are ready to be used.” said Victor. Three leaves overlap each other, two on one side and the third on the other, making an anorexic “Y”, which is then twisted to make a cone; into which goes a spoon of rice, a spoon of mushroom and a spoon of pork. The cone is then folded, tightly shut, tied with a string and hung from a steel rod hanging from above. To the two dumplings that I wrapped, the volunteers matched five each and giggled a lot, probably at my expense. Friends cheered me and clicked photographs as if I was wrangling a croc with my bare hands. But wasn’t I merely wrapping a very sloppy rice dumpling?

Yes and no. My fruit of labour was shoddy no doubt but by rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands dirty ( or sticky) that morning, I had tacitly shed my wide eyed tourist garb. The volunteers warmed up to me. “Do visit anytime you want to” and “Eat one more dumpling, won’t you?” and “Did you see, she wrapped two dumplings?”.

The rice dumplings were dropped into a large metal can of boiling water atop an open fire made out of wood and coal. “We can’t have such big pots in our homes, so my mother steams the dumplings in batches through the night, so we can have them in the morning on the festival day.” said Chao Zhu, a fellow urban sketcher, who was visiting the temple on a second consecutive year to celebrate Duanwu. I was curious to know if she could wrap rice dumplings nearly as good as her mother. “Gosh no! Unfortunately it’s becoming more and more obscure. I don’t think I can pass it down to the next generation.” Sadly there were too many heads nodding in agreement.

Four different types of dumplings laid out with hot tea and ketchup

After the dumplings were boiled, the volunteers laid them on a table in separate trays with name tags indicating their type – Kee Zhang (plain rice dumplings with no filling), Zhang (Vegetarian dumpling), Bak Zhang ( dumplings with pork filling) and Tao Zhang ( dumplings with beans). Kettles of tea, disposable plates, cups, bottles of ketchup (to accompany the dumplings) were set up. After our fill, when we were ready to leave, the volunteers packed us the leftover dumplings. “Souvenirs from the temple!” said Victor.

Victor, regaling me with his stories

Back home, I checked the internet all right – Duanwu festival commemorates the death of the patriotic poet and revered minister Qu Yuan ( 340 – 278 BC) of the ancient state of Chu. He committed suicide by jumping into the Miluo river in Hunan province, because he was accused of treason and exiled by the king for opposing an alliance with the state of Qin.

So much for getting the facts straight, it’s still the cab driver’s dramatic narration that rings in my ears.

Behind the scenes at a Teochew Opera

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“Look, the philosopher is picking his nose again! Make sure you get that in your sketchbook!”, a giggling deity instructs me from her chair, putting down the newspaper she’d been reading. The entire room bursts into laughter.

My timing isn’t perfect though. When I look up, the philosopher has paused his excavation (or perhaps found gold) and gives me a sheepish look. Different people seek different means to calm their nerves before appearing on stage, so I quickly dismiss his antic as a means of personal solace and avert my eyes.

Since 3 in the afternoon, I am at the backstage, observing and recording the hair and make up process of a group of Teochew Opera performers in my sketchbook. In a span of six hours I have watched these 21st century men and women metamorphose bit by bit into ancient Chinese officials, philosophers, scholars, lovers, courtesans and further back in time, into celestial beings such as deities of wealth, success, longevity and such.

I had arrived to a room full of opera performers scattered at various make up stations. Javier, one of the performers who’d invited me backstage was poised motionless on a chair, while her face was being powdered and eyes shaded with a black pencil. Still clad in pyjamas and sneakers, she was a deity in the making, who’d soon be summoned by Kim Bor – the ‘queen mother of the west’ to celebrate her birthday on stage.

Javier will be playing a deity in the play "A Celestial Birthday"

Javier will be acting as a deity in the play “A Celestial Birthday”

While Javier was getting ready for Kim Bor’s party, five feet away the queen mother herself was having her hair done. Two hairstylists were folding a bunch of hair strands and sticking them on the birthday girl’s forehead in a semicircle using starch and water. ” It will last for a day, but if I had to make it last longer, I’d mix starch with vinegar. Doesn’t stink and lasts for three days!” said one of the hairstylists expelling her trade secret to me.

I don’t ask her why it needs to last for three days. Do celestial birthdays last that long?

“Also the hair we’re using here is real because false hair is too stiff”, explains another, when she catches me gaping at her make up paraphernalia that has taken up an entire table. Hair of all shapes, sizes and designs from fringes to buns to braids; crowns with exquisite stone settings, necklaces, hairpins, clips, hair bands, hair nets amongst many others lay in neat compartments inside transparent plastic boxes. Four opera groups that are performing today at the ongoing Teochew Cultural Festival, are keeping them on their toes.

Before the performance, I meet with Mr. Lim Chunheng, the events manager to know more about the Teochew people, their culture and more precisely about their opera. Mr Lim starts by pointing out Chaoshan province on the map of China, from where the Teochew people originated, carrying their language, culture and tradition to all the places they emigrated to.

Talking of the Teochew Opera which is a genre of the Chinese opera performed in the Teochew dialect, Mr. Lim says, “This 450 year old art form is beautiful, unique and worth preserving.”

The Teochew Opera was greatly influenced by Nan Xi, an early form of Chinese drama that can be traced back to the Song dynasty in the 12th century AD. Over the years, by integrating Teochew folk music coupled with the unique intonation of the Teochew dialect, Teochew opera evolved as a distinctive art form. Mr. Lim tells me, of the seven characters, the Dan (female) and Chou (clown) roles are the most artistic and well defined in Teochew opera. And the stories evolve around the themes of love, family and ethical relationships.

Kim Bor – The queen mother is getting her hair done

“Teochew Opera involves stylised body movements, facial expressions, vocal modulations and many other subtleties that takes time to master”, says Mr. Lim. “Youngsters these days don’t want to put in that much effort in learning an art form. So through cultural festivals like these, we want to create interest and awareness in them about their own heritage.” he adds.

Another deterrent responsible for the dwindling popularity of the Teochew Opera, as Mr. Lim points out, is the Teochew dialect. Though Teochew remains the ancestral language of many Chinese in Singapore, Mandarin is slowly replacing Teochew as their mother tongue, especially among the young population.

The performers having ‘Bee Hoon’ for lunch

At the backstage, everything comes to a temporary halt, when lunch arrives in takeaway boxes. Performers, volunteers, makeup artists gather around and fill up on Bee Hoon. The queen mother extracts herself from the hairstylists and joins the group. In the next few hours, tiny microphones are distributed to the performers to be attached to their bodies, flamboyant costumes in the most elegant colours with matching shoes are donned, headgears from small to large, simple to the most exquisite adorn the heads.

One of the deities approaches the hairstylist, holding her head in pain. “Too tight, the headgead’s too tight!” This headgear like many has two tiny holes on either side and comes with a matching pin as long as a chopstick that is passed from one end to another, through the hair bound in a bun, and wound a couple of times like a screwdriver, till the headgear fits the head snugly. The hairstylist fiddles with the screw and fixes the problem.

Javier catching up on local new before the performance

Javier from Thau Yong Amateur Musical Association, Singapore

As the deadline approaches, performers are getting themselves in the zone.

The queen mother and the scholar’s wife are pacing up and down the room in their flowing costumes; the deities are shaking their heads to check the fit of their headgear or humming quietly with their eyes closed; Javier is reading a newspaper and the scholar is relaxing his vocal chords by breaking into high pitched songs.

The philosopher is digging his nose, but I am not judging.

The scholar and his wife perfom in “Reunion at the capital”

Have you met MOLLY?

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I don’t know how I missed her but I did. Hurrying home from a writing workshop on the other side of the town, there were only two things that occupied my mind at that hour – a satisfying lunch and an even more satisfying nap. Eyes peeled on the road for shady spots and corners to walk by in the blazing afternoon sun, I passed her like a galloping horse with blinkers, till a gang of kids hailing MOLLY’s name in chorus, brushed past me.

MOLLY parked outside United Square Mall

Turning around, I looked straight into the big fluttering eyes of MOLLY, Singapore’s only mobile library. A refurbished public transport bus with imposing body stats – 11 meters in length, 2.2 meters in width, 2.1 meters in height and 16 tonnes in weight, MOLLY makes quite a statement on the road. Sporting an attractive decal of vibrant blue with animated characters, tiny trees and fluffy clouds drawn across her body, Molly’s visitor profile isn’t worth a guess either.

Parked along the kerb, in front of our neighbourhood mall, the bus’s door is wide open and the retractable awnings are drawn. Molly is open for business and the little ones are pouring in. Some are even returning books at the nifty ‘book-drop’ unit fitted below the bus’s window.

The bus was retrofitted with shelves, airconditioner, generator, electronic borrowing units and such

Sandwiched between the eager little readers, I squeeze myself through the door. Housed in a bus it may be, but it’s a library all right. Neat shelves on either side hold about 3000 books, that are grouped by age and labelled as per genre. An electronic book borrowing unit is stationed at the rear end of the bus, where a uniformed library assistant is familiarizing children with the borrowing process and encouraging the curious first timers on board to register themselves as library members.

I am the last person in the queue, and with the same tenderness that she was showing the children, this 50 plus years old library assistant Norida Abdullahab, helps me not only borrow the books but renew them as well. ‘So you can use these for an extended period.’ she says, flashing a reassuring smile.

When I asked Norida’s permission to sketch her, she gave me the cutest expression

Though the passage inbetween the shelves is narrow, the interior is well furnished. Good lighting and air-conditioning make for comfortable browsing and reading . Needless to say, the kids are having a ball. Some are sitting on their haunches, pulling out one book after another and sifting through them, while others are slouched on the floor, reading meditatively. The shorter ones are begging their mums and dads to be picked up, so they can reach a higher shelf.

“How about Emperor’s new clothes?”, suggests a mother. Or “City mouse and country mouse? That sounds interesting!”, coaxes another, whose girls are sitting around a pile of fairytales. It’s harder than it looks to convince their little minds.

'Although it's tiring, I love working at this mobile library'

‘Although it’s tiring, I like working at this mobile library’

Norida is picking up the books from the floor and putting them back on the shelves. “Although tiring, I like working at this mobile library.’ she says. MOLLY has been her workplace for the last seven months. “I have worked at the National Library for 16 years and only recently did I request for a transfer” she adds.

The mobile library has two teams with 3 members each – two library assistants and a group leader – visiting various locations on the island. Norida points out the printed schedules on the wall, with names of 8 locations each, to be covered on the following Saturdays and Sundays.

“Every second Saturday of the month, we visit these public venues. But that’s not our main job.” she says. On weekdays, throughout the year, MOLLY visits schools for the underprivileged. “Like schools for children with intellectual and physical disabilities, autistic children, deaf and dumb children, children with down’s syndrome to name a few.” explains Norida. “Since they can’t come to us, we go to them.”

I learn from her that, MOLLY is a 5 year old endeavour of the National Library Board of Singapore to make library services more inclusive and accessible to all, especially the undeserved community, so they too can discover the joys of reading.

Looking at the gleeful children lined at the borrowing station balancing piles of books, waiting for their turn, I feel comforted and happy thinking whether privileged or otherwise, this outreach activity of simply promoting the use of a public library at this tender age, so they become active users in the long run and use public libraries as a part of their lifelong learning journey, bears more value today than ever, specially in the context of kids growing up in a digital age with no dearth of multimedia at their disposal.

Children are familiarized with the electronic borrowing stations inside the mobile library

A mother asks Norida to help her locate books for children at level 3. “Boy or a girl?” she asks, springing right into action. ‘Girl’. “Well, then she might like these.”, says the library assistant, handing her few carefully selected options. Norida not only has sound knowledge of the library’s collection but she also provides customised recommendation to every reader requesting her assistance.

Turning back to me, she says, “I love my job at the library, but I always wanted to go out and make a difference, instead of being stationed at one place.” Reaching books to those with limited or no access to a library on a mobile bus, has fulfilled both her wishes. This is the reason she voluntarily requested for a transfer, after a decade and a half of service at a public library.

‘I love bonding with children, you know. I am also a grandmother of three.”

A comic-al evening

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People watching and more coffee chronicles

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Working as a freelancer from the confines of ones home isn’t as palatable as the images it may conjure. Besides a disciplined work environment – which needs to be strictly self imposed by freelancers – you miss out on the day to day office camaraderie, the human connection, the collective sense of belonging to a place.

A starbucks outlet

While not contesting on the shade of the grass on either side, when I find the scales tipping in other’s favour i.e when I start feeling cooped up and lonely, I simply carry my work, 5 mins from my house, to the nearest coffee shop, where I get people to sit around me while minding their own business, listen to pleasant music and have access to air-conditioning, wifi and plug points.

To my surprise and delight, there is no dearth of the like minded, so much so that between 9 to 5, it is hard to find a place.

There are official meetings presided by dapper looking men and women over cappuccino and cookies. And these madams and sirs care to perch their prissy bottoms only on the plush leather sofas with handrest (also the most coveted in the entire cafe) by the windows with the lovely view. If this coincides your entry, it pays to linger around, as they usually leave as soon as they finish their drink or their talking.

School kids working on their assignments

But the same theory is redundant when it comes to the cafe’s biggest headcount – the scraggy school kids finishing assignments over a glass of plain water and maybe, just maybe a tall sized green tea frappe that was finished eons ago and has the frothy bits left at the bottom. Now, they cost the cafe, the entire upper and lower deck with high stools and convenient plug points.

And they also kind of live here, only getting up for toilet and food breaks (which is usually a packet of chips). While away which sometimes is for an hour, their personal laptops in dayglo covers, scribbled notebooks, stationaries, chargers, headphones, snacks, wet wipes and sweatshirts scattered on the table will stand sentry. Yes, it’s Singapore, nothing gets stolen but avoid this zone like plague, if you wish to be seated in this lifetime.

More students

Then there are the moms. All kinds of moms. The ones feeding chocolate fudge cake to their primary schoolers sitting upright (only at the behest of mommy), and doing their home works; and the ones with toddlers learning to use cutlery and making a gruesome mess by repeatedly stabbing the delicate chicken puff, while their eyes are peeled on the iPad; and lastly the pregnant ones with a wailing brat in tow, struggling to get a heaving stroller (from the weight of groceries) inside the cafe door with one hand and shoving the pacifier into the child’s mouth with another .

Al fresco seating at the cafe

Moms populate the cafe’s alfresco seating so their kids can run around and chase pigeons, when they can tear away from their wondrous gadgets. If you’ve been around for a while like me, you’ll know – smaller the kid, battier is the mother, and the fidgety she gets, higher is the probability of finding a seat. So hover like a bee over a bed of flowers. Your luck might just turn.

The rest belong to the mixed bag, where taking your chances could be be a bit hit and miss. Like the older school kids in uniforms caught in between school and private tuitions or college goers, congregation of elderly people or maids on their off days. They could leave in an hour or lounge for half a day. I’d play it by the ear.

Possibly a fashion designer

But if you are desperate for a seat and nothing else has been working, you might want to sneak up on those sitting all by themselves – alone with their coffee and reading a book/newspaper or updating their blog or looking at Google maps. Most of the time, they get bored with themselves too easily and leave. Jump right in.

Saving the best for the last because you spot this kind only if you are alert and have been paying attention – the kind that rolls in, does their business and leaves. Pin your hopes on anybody without a laptop. Or without a smartphone, but that’s asking too much in Singapore.

An evening at Starbucks

Watch out for people with big shopping bags, or those with dogs, or those taking quick interviews ( I’ve been witness to many job interviews over coffee – lasts as long as the drink), making a hurried presentation, mulling over houses with property agents or bickering like the two local film producers I came across, trying to prove whose job sucked more. I could swear, their heated debate rose to a crescendo but cut out as soon as the last drop of coffee trickled down their throat. After which they left and I moved in.

It is within this group that, if you are lucky, you get a seat that isn’t already choped – a typical Singaporean phenomenon of reserving seats by placing a harmless tissue or hasn’t been pooped upon by one of the three notorious pigeons that pick at the leftovers.

I have honed my seat grabbing skills over three years of Starbucks patronage at my neighbouring outlet where I’ve worked, planned vacations, played scrabble, finished several tomes and drank gallons of coffee and tea. And only recently, have I started sketching and it isn’t surprising that in my 90 page sketchbook, which I finished recently, there are more than twenty sketches done at this location of the same individuals, groups and clusters I talk about. I observed them only because I sketched them.

This is why I accompany my stories with hand

drawn sketches instead of photographs. More than any other medium, sketching requires complete immersion of senses, gets you to pay attention and slow down.

Any sketch when looked at several days or months later, evokes the moment, in its tiniest details. Like this hand carved wooden panda bear pen that was sold to me at the cafe by an ex-convict with heavily tattooed legs.

Hand carved panda pen sold by an ex-convict

Hand carved panda bear pen sold by an ex-convict

The opening line of his very impressive speech, that led to the sale was, ” Do you believe in second chances?”. Cheesy, yes? But the sketch helped me pin that memory down.