Chapter Five -...

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ODIANGA Loving & Speculative Chronicle of Francis Joseph Pillay (My Dad), told against the long and colourful passage of the Chetty Malacca community through the history of Malacca.

By Gerald F Pillay

Chapter Five

Memories of the War and Japanese Occupation -

2 Dec 41

On the above date, the whole of Malaya and Singapore was abuzz with the arrival of the Prince of Wales and the Repulse. We were safe. The army and navy were here to protect us. In our home, there was an equally extra-ordinary commotion, because it was my seventh birthday.

The Australian 8th Infantry Division was already positioned in Kluang and responsible for Malacca. Its 27 Inf Brigade was located in Muar, their allotted defence area. On the other side, the Indian

Odiang: Chapter Five – Memories of the War and Japanese Occupation

12 Infantry Brigade, in Reserve, was positioned in Port Dickson. At that time the Volunteers were mobilised. It does not take much to picture the scenario of troops of different nationalities milling around in the nearest central spot in this war zone, namely Malacca town. The hottest joints would have been the MVC messes, which would have been filling up nightly over the preceding few months. We got to know many of the soldiers, and to like them. And on this day my Dad and Mum had invited some of them over to our home for my party. As I recall there were mainly Australians, as well our family friends. The highlight of the evening came when my Dad presented me with a Sam Brown Belt1, custom-made to my size, which I proudly put on the whole evening.

It was anything but a kid’s party. There was an air of genuine cheer and optimism. I became very much attached to one Australian soldier named Tom Hogan, and we were friends. He even gave me his Australian hat (the one with one side turned up). Sadly for many at the party, it may have been their last, for the Japanese landed exactly 6 days later, and our friends either died in battle or became prisoners of war.

Evacuation to Singapore

The MVC would have evacuated to Singapore not much later than the defeat at Slim River on 8 Jan 42, when it was decided to let KL go un-defended and move back the Defence Line to Johore. They may well have gone earlier, as soon as the Battle Order was issued on 8 Dec 41, assigning them to the defence of Singapore.

My Dad, with the administrative headquarters, remained the last to evacuate. The order must have come through to move not later than 12 Jan 42, after KL fell. Move he did, with his two 3-tonner trucks fully loaded, in the dusk of 13 Jan 42. I see that my Dad had a decision to make. He had the space in his vehicles, he was in charge and he was not leaving his family behind. My Mother probably had something to do with it. She had no family in Malacca, They were all in Singapore. But most importantly, it was not feasible to leave my Mum and me in our government quarters at Garden City. So, My Mother, I and all our worldly possessions in three double bed-sheet bundles, were tossed aboard the second truck and off we went.

And that’s when we joined the war. Firstly, the country was in blackout. There was no moon. Under tree cover, it was pitch black. On open stretches, the stars provided scant light. We travelled by “brown-out”. This meant a black cloth covering the head-lights, with only a small hole of not more than 2 inches in diameter – pointed directly to the ground. We moved real slowly. All the locals were tightly shut up in their huts. At the sound of military trucks they would go totally black out. Secondly, we were traversing ground zero. On the one hand, the 3rd Indian Corps, much battered and injured, were retreating from the north down the main trunk road with the Japanese hot on their heels in pursuit They were holding rearguard actions and blowing up bridges to halt the Japanese. There was no point getting in their way or, worse, ending up between the Japanese and them – there was no way of telling how to avoid that. On the other hand, the coast road from Malacca to Muar was also out of the question, for the Japanese were massing in that area. My Dad did the sensible thing, using his knowledge of estate roads from younger courting days. He took the diagonal route, via secondary roads, through Jasin and Tangkak to Segamat. I recall that many times we were brought to a halt in the dark to check the route, potholes and ditches –and that the bridges had not been blown by our friendly forces. The bridges were intact. We found no Japanese either, although we were aware they were streaming through the terrain on either side of us. This element worried us increasingly we neared Segamat and drove into the wedge between the converging main road. We finally made it past Jementah,

1 The Sam Brown belt was worn by officers of the British and other armies in the early last century. It was a regular military-grade leather belt worn round the waist, with a strap that went over the right shoulder and across to the left in front. It was connected to the waist belt at the centre of the back at one end and at the front near the left hip, with an attachment to hold a sword.

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reaching the top end of the Malacca-Segamat road guarded by the 22 Indian Inf Brigade. After checking us thoroughly, they let us through the heavily fortified Johore Defence Line - to the relative safety of the south – or so we thought. It was about 0200 on 14 Jan 42 when we did so.

From Segamat we were on the north-south trunk road to Singapore, about halfway. The road itself might have been better, but instead of driving in the pitch-black night by ourselves as we did further back, we were now driving in the pitch-black night in the thick of some hundreds of troop carriers and 3-tonners doing the same and scrambling for their locations. Units under Australian command were either looking for their allotted defensive positions or moving to new defensive positions on fresh orders. The remainder, namely all the units from the north, were looking for their designated re-grouping locations or just looking for one another. Once or twice, a lost vehicle would stop us and ask if we had seen a convoy with a particular insignia go by. We helped where we could; we did not try to explain that it was not easy to recognise insignia in the pitch-black. There were check-points everywhere. Apart from recognition problems, the sentries were overwhelmed and high-strung, because they did not know who to let through. The Australians had the territory covered with check-points all the way to Yong Peng.

It was chaotic and it was exciting. One thing was clear: never be in the rear of a defensive line or a zone of retreat and re-grouping, especially not in pitch black conditions. However, we largely managed to get through. Somewhere near Yong Peng, we lost the trunk road and ended in a detour – all by ourselves. The road felt very wobbly and unsafe. When we got down to check, we were horrified to find that we were in a swamp and the wheels of our trucks were inches away from a large parit (canal) on our right. With everybody out, we backed slowly to safely, losing an hour in this episode. We got to Ayer Hitam without further mishap. .

In the last leg to Singapore, only the vehicles evacuating to Singapore, like us, remained. The others had diverted to their various destinations. We encountered an equal number of vehicles going northward – presumably sending supplies and reinforcements to the front-line. In the last hour before sunrise, there was the faintest suggestion of a moon. And soon we had the dawn. This enabled us to increase speed. But it also brought a fresh problem – strafing Japanese aircraft. We were within range of defence aircraft from Singapore, except that there were none protecting our route. Fortunately, after two passes, the Japanese planes left us– presumably for bigger targets along the road. But these attacks were terrifying and gave us our first fore-taste of hot bullets and being shot at. At seven years old, this was my battle-inoculation. Fortunately no one was injured. . We did not encounter any further problems.

At 0800 on 14 Jan 42, we crossed the causeway into Singapore. Fortunately, there was no air attack on.

We were to learn that we were among the last troop convoys to cross the Johore Defence Line at 0200. The rear-guard of the 3rd Corps followed suit and the Australians slammed the gates shut after that. That same day, the Japanese attacked the line.

SVC Hall

We got across Singapore island without mishap. My Dad headed us straight for the SSVF Headquarters, at Beach Road, opposite Raffles Hotel. While he reported for duty, we de-bussed and moved all the MVC paraphernalia and all personal belongings into the SVC Drill Hal, where we found other evacuees and refugees. This hall is almost the size of a football field, with a wooden floor and a stage at one end, and can muster a full battalion on parade. The sound of a battalion coming to attention can be qute stirring. The hall has over the years served as a favourite venue for new year’s eve dances. At this time, it would be our shelter for about a week, as we made arrangements to relocate.

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We quickly learnt that we had in fact jumped from the frying pan into the fire. A brigade headquarters, in this case one of the most prominent military establishments in Singapore, was not the ideal place to shelter in a war. It would be on the score-card of every passing enemy bomber. At that point, the Japanese had acquired complete air supremacy over Singapore, and began to bomb us daily. In the few days we were there, every time there was an air raid, we were sure each time to receive a packet of bombs. Fortunately, the SVC Hall was not hit but the drill square in the grounds was. After each raid, there were craters and collapsed houses, some on fire, along Beach Road and the surrounding roads, and even a dead body or two. As I recall these events, I wonder what really motivated us to evacuate to Singapore. Primarily, I think the family wanted to be together with Dad, topped up by the natural desire to be within help distance of relatives. KL and Malacca were being abandoned. There was no point of us staying., It was a good time to go. By all outward calculations, Singapore looked to have a reasonable chance to win. But, win or lose, that was the place to be

.Simon Road

The immediate problem was to get away from the gruesome vicinity of Beach Road and find some safety. My Dad moved us to Mrs. College’s place. This was at No 6 Simon Road, 6 m.s. Upper Serangoon Road. I don’t think he knew it, but actually we were above the Serangoon Defence Line, in invasion ground zero. However, fortunately, when they did invade Singapore, the Japanese opted not to land in the Eastern Area where we were, but on the west. .I like to think my Dad made a good call here. General Percival in fact thought they would land on the east. He was one reason why we lost the war.

Simon Road sloped uphill from the main road. Our property was on the left of the road, about a third of the way up. It was rectangular in shape. The short side (100 ft) fronted the road with the land running laterally deep in (200 ft). The College Residence, a sprawling three storey concrete-and–wood old-fashioned bungalow, occupied the whole of the far end. In between, on the higher side, there was a lateral row of four charming cottages for old couples and singles. On the lower side, was the access road to the residence. In between, there were lateral rows of orchids and other flowering plants, with watering footpaths. And lastly, near the entrance to the property, there was a well. We occupied a room on the second floor, and shared in the common messing arrangements. We stayed there for over a month and experienced the whole war and aftermath from there.

Mrs. College was related to my Mother in some indirect way I did not determine. She was a grand old Eurasian lady of the classical school, stern in demeanour, upright in carriage, stiff of upper lip, proper in etiquette, charitable, and a bastion of Christianity. I never met Mr. College, and got the impression the gentlemen had passed on. They had a son, Bobby College, who was very Caucasian looking. He in turn was married to very Chinese-looking Eurasian lady, and between them they had an exquisite teenaged daughter, Betty. She was a dream out of a Japanese fairy-tale. In time, the Japanese officer of the local garrison fell in love with her. As a consequence the College home enjoyed the respect and protection of the Japanese soldiers. There would be only one problem. The garrison decided they would bathe at our well. As per their custom, they did so stark naked. Mrs. College was not pleased, but thought better of making an issue of it. My Dad joined us in the last few days of the Singapore invasion, when his work at Beach Road would have been done. The MVC were even before we arrived already deployed under tactical command.

Initially, Upper Serangoon was appreciably quieter than Beach Road. But as the war escalated, it seemed that everything was going on around us. Firstly, the bombings increased in regularity, to day and night, and then it seemed continuously. .After a while, we could recognise the ominous

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drone of approaching bombers. We folk on the ground could tell whether it was a 60, 80 or 100 plane formation. We even counted them overhead. We could tell the moment of danger when they should optimally drop their loads (to hit us) and we could tell when they actually did drop their bombs (whether too early or too late to hit us.). We listened out for the explosions, and could tell where they fell or which target was intended. There were a fair share of stray and wayward drops, especially when the Japanese took to carpet bombing. We could tell from the timing and the loudness of the screech how close it was going to be. That was the time to dive for cover and duck. We could of course tell the sounds of fighter aircraft in a dogfight. We could tell every time a Buffalo lumbered up. They made a loud din, in contrast to the happier lighter pitch of the Japanese planes (like the early Japanese motorcycles compared to the then Nortons and Triumphs) There would be an almighty exchange of fire, followed invariably by silence – after the Buffalo was shot down. I remember on one occasion being at the junction of Simon and Upper Serangoon on my own, when the siren sounded and the planes appeared. I dived into the large road-side drain for cover. From there I got a front-side view of both the bombers higher up and a dog-fight lower down. It was one of my most vivid memories of the war.

Things changed after the Japanese broke through the Johore Defence Line, and the British ordered the retreat of all remaining forces into Singapore - by 30 Jan 42. All the troops we met in Johore two weeks earlier were now rushing about in Singapore trying to find their newest defence locations. And, having advanced to Johore Bahru, the Japanese were now happily within artillery range of Singapore. By the same token, they came within range of Singapore’s artillery. .And, so began an artillery war. On the one hand, the Japanese were trying to softening up the defending troops prior to the invasion. The defenders in turn were trying to knock them off their horses and prevent them launching the invasion. The Japanese field artillery easily reached the defensive lines in Singapore. On the other hand, Singapore had to rely on its big guns at Blakang Mati (now Sentosa) and Changi to reach across to Johore Bahru. We were in the middle between the two artillery sides. But, now, we were in zone zero of the invasion. We could tell when one of our heavy guns fired.. We did not pick up the resulting explosions every time. In my review to write this paper I found out why, years later. It seems the gun emplacements had been supplied with armour-piercing shells for sinking battleships, instead of High Explosive (HE) shells which is what is needed to create a mess and deliver reasonable quantities of shrapnel. The former only created a deep hole in the ground on arrival.. We now also learnt to interpret the sounds of artillery fire from Johore, and be on guard at all hours. Basically we listened for the whine; the louder the nearer. We had only a few seconds to dive or duck. If the shell itself did not kill you on impact, the shrapnel might. On one occasion my Dad was coming down the stairs when a shell burst nearby. As he took a step down, a piece of shrapnel whizzed past where his head been a second before, having come through the wooden walls of the house. We found it later several rooms away.

Mercifully, the Japanese air force and artillery abated their bombing and shelling on and after 8 Feb 42. By then the Japanese soldiers were on the island. With bayonets fixed and due ferocity they were moving inland – presumably still not taking prisoners. We were saved the fearsome prospect of meeting these gentlemen, because they did not land in the Eastern Area. On reflection, this was a sensible, even obvious strategy; there must be something in the standard military manuals about the stupidity of taking a war through a populated area. The local population was largely in the Eastern Area. Yamashita obviously noticed this. He also noticed that there was a perfectly inviting route via the much less populated Western Area .down the triple corridors of Jurong, Kranji-Batok and Bukit Timah straight through to Ayer Rajah, where the major British bases were located. On the way, there were the supply dumps and crucial water supply installations of the island at Bukit Timah to be captured. It seems Percival did not read this manual. In the event, the above was indeed how the war went and the Japanese conquered Singapore in 7 days.

We heard the prolonged air-battle that took place on 8 Feb 42, and concluded that something was up. The silence in the air after that, except for sporadic anti-aircraft gunfire, was even more ominous. At that time we did not know the replacement Hurricanes had been shot up and the

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remnant squadrons had been ordered to Palembang. Now that I think of it, we heard nothing about the role of the Royal Navy at all, except for one engagement around 20 Jan 42 off Endau when they participated in an effort to prevent fresh Japanese landings.. In my review I checked for information on the Internet. There was nothing. I can only conclude that the British saw no role for the navy in the Battle of Singapore, and had ordered all the ships off to Ceylon or Australia:.

Rumours started flying around that the Japanese had landed. We began to hear ground artillery and small-arms fire, which seemed to be moving toward the city. And, we began to see heavy truck and transport movements at desperate speeds heading in every direction as troops rushed about to shore up the defences. Next we heard that the water supply had been captured, and the city only had days to survive. My Dad joined us at some point during this stage, and confirmed all. Then we knew Singapore would surrender, which she did on 15 Feb 42. It was of course Chinese New Year.

Surrender Blues

It was bewildering for my Dad and near inconceivable to the populace that Singapore had been captured. There was deep disappointment in the British, in whom people had so much faith. My Dad had made a difficult choice and brought his family in the confidence that we would be protected and would return safe. Instead he and the family were facing the possibility of incarceration and worse by Japanese if and when they identified him as the senior civilian officer of the MVC. I was not of course privy to my Dad’s thoughts, but he must have asked himself whether the last month had all been a mistake and whether he should have left the family in Malacca. In trying to evade the Japanese net, he had brought us right into it. Again he had to take some tough decisions. The first priority was to see that the family was safe. It was a blessing that the non-combatant staff had been disbanded a few days before the end and told to vanish. My Dad decided to declare ourselves refugees, who had come over to look after our relatives. And his aim was to get us back to Malacca as soon as possible, before the sickness of informers and collaborators went to work2

On 17 Feb 42, two days after the surrender, the Japanese launched their reign of terror. They issued instructions for the round up and screening of young Chinese men. Those reported by informers to be anti-Japanese were driven off in lorries to the nearest beach or dump and shot or decapitated.. Reports vary from 11,600 victims in Japanese war records for Singapore to 50,000 for the whole of Malaya and Singapore in the minds of the population

The POWs who deserved our greatest sympathy were the members of the two Brigades of the British 18 (East Anglian) Infantry Division who were the last to arrive, even as Singapore was on the point of being invaded. Within days, these soldiers, mostly young, many without even firing a shot, were surrendered by Percival to the Japanese, to be exposed to the hardships of captivity, many to die of malnutrition and disease, while others were sent to build the infamous Burma “Death” Railway.. We have to remind ourselves that two fully battle armed British brigades with supporting elements constituted a formidable force of nearly 10,000 men, capable of re-capturing Bukit Timah Hill. It is sobering to read the Letter of E.I Phillips, a member of the 18 th Division, lamenting the plight of his fellow soldiers, see http://www.cofepow.org.uk/pages/armedforces_r_18th_division_times.htm . The question he asks is: should they have been sent in, if there was that certainty of defeat. The other question he asks is why a Dunkirk-style retreat had not been planned with joined Allied participation. I have found a third question raised by others: Why was it decided at the staff conference on the eve of surrender, that a counter-attack to re-capture Bukit Timah was not feasible: In other words, even

2 “Informers” or “collaborators” were new well-paid occupations that grew like cancer.. It was amazing who were prepared to inform on you. Sometimes a little torture produced excellent results. At other times, revenge provided the motivation. If nothing else, the offer of a big reward could always be trusted to turn up an appropriate yarn.

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http://www.cofepow.org.uk/pages/armedforces_r_18th_division_times.htm


at the end, all the three “street-corner options” were available: fight, run, or surrender. It is not my purpose to evaluate the causes and allocate the blame for the failure. Many have written on the subject. My overall impression is that there were several bad judgments and decisions made, from Churchill down. However, as the commander at the end of the line, it was Percival’s role to make all the tactical decisions that mattered, and it was his war to win or lose. For this reason it is fair to ask what Percival’s position was on these three questions. Part of the answers may be found in the Percival Report, Issued as Special Supplement to the Straits Times, Feb. 27, 1948, and in his book The War In Malaya, 1949, both which I have had the opportunity to read3.

I will conclude this section by quoting Percival’s evaluation of the Japanese threat made in 1937:

“In late 1937, his analysis duly confirmed that north Malaya might become the critical battleground. The Japanese were likely to seize the east coast landing sites on Thailand and Malaya in order to capture aerodromes and achieve air superiority. This could serve as a prelude to further Japanese landings in Johore to disrupt communications northwards and enable the construction of another main base in North Borneo. From North Borneo, the final sea and air assault could be launched against eastern Singapore -- against Changi area”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Percival#cite_note-41#cite_note-41

It is gratifying that he got it right, and the defence of Malaya Command did correctly anticipate the Japanese invasion.

Returning Refugees

The war ended with a night of merciful silence, all the more unreal because no one could portend what our fates would be.

The reality of the surrender for me was seeing Japanese soldiers for the first time, about a company I would say, route-marching down Kovan Road, fully battle-clad but guns slung, from Punggol towards the city. From Simon Road, I had discovered the home of a Chetty Malacca family down Kovan Road, and had already started my favourite occupation of exploring. This might have been the next day after the surrender. .Most people kept indoors and out of sight. But some other kids and I, not having our mothers nearby to tell to do the same, we just stood there and sullenly watched them go by across the road. Over the next few days, this would be a common sight. We also began to see columns of tired and dejected British POWs being herded along.Soon a Japanese troop or garrison got posted to our neighbourhood and made camp in our grounds

The immediate problem for my Dad was how to get us back to Malacca. Here his intention coincided that of the Japanese. The latter wanted the refugees back in Malaya as soon as possible, to take the pressure off Singapore’s food supplies. They got the causeway functional after a fashion within a a fortnight and the railway line re-connected not long after.

One day, I make it in early Mar 42, the Japanese called for all refugees to register to return to Malaya. I am not ware what prior notice or information he had, but without delay my Dad, my Mother and I - and our three bundles - presented ourselves at the Keppel Railway Station. We

3 Both are available in microfilm at the Lee Kong Chan Reference Library, National Library, Singapore

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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Changi

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johore

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thailand

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malay_Peninsula


had no idea what the drill was, and we were taking no chances. So, we joined a line of several thousands of peoples, also with bundles and baggage. No one seemed to know what to do, but it was clear that they were like us trying to get out of Singapore. The line extended along the arrival road back to the front of the station. You could not see what was happening at the platforms. It soon became clear we were not to talk, ask or move about. We were only allowed to squat. Those who did otherwise were roundly slapped or bashed in the head with rifle butts, by the incredibly ferocious Japanese soldiers. They soon convinced us with no doubt whatsoever that what they had joined the army to do was to shoot, bayonet and decapitate people they did not like, not stand guard in the hot sweaty sun over a troublesome lot of women and children - whom they made further very clear they were rapidly taking an intense dislike to. And what’s more, they had very short tempers. Just for good measure they bashed up a few people every now and again. We soon learnt the best way to stay alive was not to look at them, but appear cowed all the time. That was not too difficult. We were terrified. It did not help that every so often, an even more ferocious soldier would walk by carrying a sword. In those early days, the citizenry had become all too familiar with the terminal power of a Japanese sword. Any disrespect, any failure to obey, could be one’s head off instantly. Fortunately, the sword was not administered that day.

It grew hotter as the day wore on. The line grew longer behind us. There was no movement forward, nor indeed any sound of locomotives. Two questions were answered categorically. There was no water. There were no toilets. It was at this point we learnt what it was truly like to be refugees – like the millions in the world in this category.. My Mother, like most women who had their instincts with them, brought food and water. From our bundles, she also produced some covering against the sun. Fortunately during this episode it did not rain.

My memory fails me here, but I think it took the Japanese most of the day to process the waiting line. Of course there were no papers, nobody was telling the whole truth and nobody was able to believe everything. Perhaps shipping us off was the best thing, except for anti-Japanese elements. We learnt an important lesson of the refugee world. Even if you recognise someone, never, never, never say hello. You never know what cover story he or she is using. You could be sending that person to instant death. And most certainly, you might want to murder someone who was stupid enough to recognise you and say hello. The screening was a highly dangerous process, with a bank of informers and collaborators standing beside the Japanese, scanning you and trapping you with questions.

What was important was that we made it through the screening. I was told I behaved exceedingly well: I had no wish to lose my head, and was therefore sharp enough to stay away from trouble. Mercifully we were assigned to the Malacca group. There were several groups going to different destinations., Eventually, everybody who was going places got sorted out. The different groups assembled along the out-going platform, waiting for the transport. Again, my sense of timing fails me, for I cannot remember what time the train did come in. It was probably mid afternoon. What I (we all) shall never forget was that what sidled up was a goods wagon train. The wagons were made of solid metal plate, completely enclosed, and without ventilation, except for the loading door which would be slid shut and locked. What was even worse was that the wagons had no insulation and were burning hot inside, having stood in the sun closed the whole day. Without so much as a thought, our guards ordered us to load up and get in. It seemed, their intention was to cram as many as possible into each wagon, until the last one literally dropped out of the door. We were packed like sardines. It was a hell-hole. Babies cried and women fainted. Eventually, by piling our bundles on top of one another, we managed to create some vertical space. Mercifully, as the evening set in, it cooled a little, and the cargo doors were left partially open.

Again my memory fails me. When we moved off, probably towards dawn. I was asleep from exhaustion. I do recall however that, like everybody else, I was wide awake with fear and my heart was in my mouth as we crossed the causeway. The wagons creaked and swayed precariously as we passed over the temporary wooden bridgings over the blown sections. Every car wanted to go over the side, while every other car along the line wanted to stay topside, so much so that the entire train screeched, wailed and groaned in mortal agony. But, finally, the

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combination of British rail technology, Japanese bridge engineering and refugee prayers worked, and we were there - in Johore. It was already light. I recall my Dad muttering that hardly a month had passed by since we travelled the causeway in the opposite direction, and what a difference there was.

It grew intolerably and impossibly hot in the wagon. Fortunately, our guard had taken to travelling with us, perched on a box by the wagon door, which consequently he kept half open. Otherwise some of us would surely have expired. Unknown to anybody but my Dad, also travelling in our wagon incognito was Joe Beins, a Portuguese Eurasian MVC Volunteer. A mettlesome and hot-tempered lad, he somehow provoked the guard, who immediately drew his sword. By instinct we collectively pulled Joe away and buried him in our midst. It was a terrifying moment, the guard could have gone rampant. against our defiance. Fortunately, he calmed down. He must have sensed that we were near the end of our journey.

Finally, we arrived at Tampin. It was late afternoon. Our wagon doors were flung open and we were ordered to discharge. The guard climbed back into the wagon, and off the train went, towards Seremban. To this day, I can never forget that afternoon when, standing with Mum and Dad and our bundles on the raised railway walk-way, I was overwhelmed with what it was like to be free. We were free, this was Malacca, this was our homeland, the sky was blue and wind was sweet.

My Dad had obviously anticipated the situation; for he seemed to carry adequate funds with him unrolled from somewhere off his person. He immediately walked us to the station. There we had a drink and had something to eat. Eventually we visited the much–overused toilets. Meanwhile my Dad successfully negotiated for a taxi to take us to Malacca. Very soon the station was empty as others did the same, or hopped into bullock-carts with their luggage hired by relatives and friends. At that point, the Malacca Railway line had not been removed, but it seems the Japanese thought it adequate to toss us off at Tampin.

Return to Malacca

It is a basic law of self-preservation in an enemy-occupied country that no one tells another about himself or herself or their whereabouts. That way your friends cannot let slip any information about you or be tortured to divulge it, The principle applies equally, in fact especially, to the family And that is how everyone survives, and how we survived during the Japanese occupation.

One thing was clear, that my Dad had no intention of letting anyone of his old circle know that he was back. We never made any attempt to go back to Garden City or the MVC. In fact, we went into deep cover or “balek kampong”. The latter means back to the village.

Again, I had the impression my Dad had made provision for the eventualities we were in. He seemed to move with financial assurance in very tight situations. He probably also had one or more benefactors in case of need he could turn to, particularly Mama Sundrum

My Dad headed us straight for Meringu Lane, his ancestral home. Here we were back under the family umbrella and in the network of Pillay protection and influence. The first thing the network did was to check around whether anyone one was looking for my Dad. The next thing was to locate some accommodation. Within a day or so, word came back that there was an empty shack secluded under some coconut trees not far away, for which they had secured clearance for us to move in temporarily. I have a problem remembering where we slept on the first night, but I think we moved in the next day. Needless to say the Pillay bullock-cart did the haulage this time. The place was located off Gajah Berang Road opposite Kampong Tujoh. It was really sub-habitable. However, the roof was rain-proof and the chinks in the planks forming the side walls provided ventilation. We soon successfully evacuated the incumbent residents, namely the ants, lizards

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and other of God’s lesser winged creatures. We found the nearest pipe-stand, and we found the toilet. The latter was some way behind us, perched precariously over the edge of a swamp The swamp of course produced swarms of mosquitoes, and we soon learnt how to maintain a smoking fire in the night to keep them away. I have checked Google Maps and found that the exact spot of this remarkable residence was along the present Jalan Kampong Empat, off Jalan Gajah Berang, directly opposite Plaza Jayamuda. It was clear this could only be a temporary shelter. After what my Mother had been through in the preceding month, she took it with remarkable aplomb. We stayed at Gajah Berang for not more than a few weeks.

Meanwhile, the Pillay intelligence-network found optional accommodation for us. This time it was on the main Tranquerah Road, No 40 or 42, if my memory serves me correctly. It was a two storey brick terraced shop-house directly opposite Meringu Lane. The owner was an Indian barber, Mr. Ramaya, who was married to a Chinese wife and ran his barbershop downstairs. We had the whole front half of the upstairs, while he and his family (including one little girl as I recall) occupied the back half of the upstairs. Typical of the traditional Malacca houses backing on to the sea, the terrace houses here were long, with an internal open-air mid-court. This was followed by the dining area followed by the kitchen, extending out to the rear open yard, which in turn looked out to the foreshore and the sea. Every house had a well in its internal courtyard, which was the chief source of the water for the home. The Ramayas were kind to us, and allowed us to be comfortable. My Mum even cooked and returned to basic housekeeping duties, including tending to our clothes. Meringu Lane was close by so that we enjoyed an extended family life with them and through them participated in the social cycle of the Chetty Malacca community. My Mother soon made friends with the families up and down the road. One lady we grew found of was the loveable Mrs. Jeannie Gomez, or Auntry Jeanie as she was known to me. She was a widow whose husband passed away recently and she had all kinds of problems making ends meet. If I remember rightly, she had to take in washing. She had a son whose name was Maxmillian or Maxie, one or two years older than me. We got on famously. What I remember most about him was that, although small in stature, he could run faster than anyone else. There was also a Chinese Catholic church at the far end of Gajah Berang Road, which we attended We stayed at Ramaya’s for six months or so before there were changes in the household and we had to move.

Tranquerah was a peaceful place on the surface, but it could hardly be said that things were normal. It was still War. We were an occupied and repressed people. The Japanese applied the harshest measures to enforce obedience. For instance, down the road not quite half a mile away was the Headquarters of the Kempeitai, the dreaded Japanese Military Police. There was a fierce guard who marched to and fro at the gate, who looked as though his lunch depended on whom he caught and beheaded next. There were usually one or two other sneaky people hanging about, waiting to finger somebody. The accusation could be as simple as stealing a chicken. And in those days of starvation, any chicken crossing one’s path was fair game. No one was free of guilt. The common wisdom was therefore never to walk past the guard. You did so at the risk of death. You could never tell if the guard would stop you. If you were forced to cross the gate, it was imperative that you approach properly and bow correctly, several times, so as not to irritate the guard, even unintentionally. Otherwise you could end up with your head on a pike outside the headquarters – in the early days there were quite a few. Most people, including my Dad went round the back via the “kampong route”. Every one kept a low profile. People accepted and lived with a higher level of ambient danger. I am not exaggerating, but if someone did not return home one night you hoped he was all right; If he did not get home for a few nights in a row, you concluded that you would not see him again. There was a somber tone to life. With God’s blessing, My Dad came home every evening during this period.

Tranquerah Memories

Yet, this period was full of wonderful memories for me. Having survived the battle and fall of Singapore, I was suddenly grown beyond my seven years, but still all boy. my Mother had the confidence that I knew how to stay out of trouble and could take care of myself. This resulted in me enjoying a good measure of independence and trust. There was no school. The little world of

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Tranquerah became my school. The curriculum was entirely of my own choosing. It should be said that in the simpler, lower-come levels of social life that we were now part of, children were left much more on their own, to learn and grow up. In a sense I became one of them. We learnt to be knowledgeable, sharp as nails, tenacious in any bargain, street savvy and worldly wise. Each of us was, consciously or unconsciously, aware that we carried our own responsibility to stay alive. In this environment, overhung with danger, every experience was a thrill and an unforgettable adventure. Most of the time, I would play in or around our home; and sometimes set off to explore. But the basic rules applied. Stay out of trouble. During the day there would be some food at home if you felt hungry Otherwise, be home for dinner. The same rules applied to Dad. In my case, I was further accountable for all my deeds of the day.

Under the above conditions, allowing for the hardships of the times, Tranquerah was as near perfect as could be for a boy not much past seven and out of school, First and foremost, we were fortunate to have as neighbours a very traditional Chinese Peranakan family, whose children included a son, Bobby, perhaps a year or so old than me. We quickly became thick friends, and shared many games and adventures. Our backyards were co-extensive, and soon became our common operating territory. Immediately beyond, and separated from us only by a common footpath, was the foreshore, Bobby’s family had a fishing boat, and so did many of the other houses along the row, all drawn up on the shore above high-water.. Further along the beach on either side there were colonies of Chinese fisher-folk, whose fishing boats were also drawn up on the beach with their fishing nets (jaring) strung out to dry and be mended on horizontal parallel poles raised about five feet off the sand. These professionals set out to sea daily for it was their livelihood and the markets depended on them. The family owners usually took to the sea on weekends or on special auspicious days. They would also use dragnets, but the true hobbyist always preferred the hand-line. He even knew what fish would be feeding where on any auspicious day. And he usually out-did those using the nets. Other family members on board would lower a trap or light net or light to catch a crab, a prawn or a cuttlefish

There were no outboard motors in those days. The boats were propelled by oars, from one to four pairs, which also defined the size of the boats (or praus) used. In the smaller boats generally about 12 footers, one person could manage a pair, but usually two men would work a set sitting side by side, with a third steering. The bigger boats, usually 18 footers, had up to four pairs of oars, with a manning crew of nine persons, inclusive of the steersman. Oarsmen of course faced backwards, and pulled the boat forwards. All boats usually went to sea under sail once clear of the rollers, especially those going far out. The standard was a single triangular sail, hoisted up amid-ships in an anchor slot in the hull and a complementary bracket at seat level, provided in every boat just forward of the first oarsman. The sail was allowed to swing transversely to catch the wind as desired, under control of the steersman. Needless to say, it provided welcome shade in the afternoon. These sails could also been seen drying out on the shore in the afternoons. Bobby’s family had, if my memory has not failed me, a boat with a double pair of oars, in other words, a boat for a working crew of five. In addition of course, in a family boat it was usual to have one or more non-working members aboard, unlike the professional fishing boats where the payload had to be conserved for the catch. Every working member on board, had precise multiple roles at different phases of a trip, which included steering and rowing, manning the nets, hauling in and storing the fish, baiting the lines, hoisting or furling the sail, and bailing out water.

Most fishing boats would set off at dusk. It was a glorious sight for Bobby and me to stand on the shore and watch them, your friends among them, head out into the setting sun, one by one their sails unfurling in the wind. If the tide was out, they would have to push their boats through the mud for as much as fifty yards, before reaching the water-line. The situation was reversed in the dawn, when Bobby and I would often be found waiting for our returning boats by the beach. If the tide was low, we would be among the first to wade out into the mud to help them push the boat in and be the first to see what their catch was like. .

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Bobby and I had our separate lives, but what we shared was the world of the seashore and the sea. In the afternoons, we would play among the boats and the fishing gear on the beach. We loved to join the fishermen resting in their pondoks (shelters), repairing nets, re-winding lines, changing hooks, sewing new sails, or simply dozing in the breeze. We loved to hear their stories of the big ones that got away, and the monster catches during certain seasons.

It was at this time that I discovered the joys of beachcombing, in this more so on my own than with Bobby. After a full tide, the beach would be full of wonders and surprises. In those days, everything was brought in from the sea and by the tide overnight. A rotted piece of plank made you wonder what shipwreck it came from and how long and far it had floated. A broken branch of a tree was always a good find. Wood was at a premium, and was always collected. Old tyres were rare and priceless, however small a piece. I always hoped to find a bicycle tyre or tube. The former was raw material for making various toy things, and the latter was essential for a catapult. A good clean bottle was precious. There were no plastic containers in those days. A float or cork (as used to buoy fishing nets) was a great find. A good piece of string, a piece of rope or any useable netting was a valuable addition to the store of knick-knacks. A piece of fishing line was a bonus. Not many people know that you need a string with a reverse pleat to make a good line for spinning a top. For some reason I never found out, fishing lines were always reverse pleated, and they were strong, and therefore excellent for tops. However, one rarely found a top in good condition on the beach. One had to get one by buying or trading, and there were very few available. Tops had pedigree, depending on the “ligat” of smoothness and duration of the spin, the quality of the nail and the number of its notches (ie other tops defeated by it in combat.). You could never pay enough for a good one. I was particularly pleased when I found a good discarded chakiak or wooden clog. I used to carve these into little toy boats to play with on the sand. A piece of bamboo was an outstanding find. It could be cut up for many purposes, including swords which no kid would be without. I used to be particularly on the lookout for used thread reels. With a bamboo, a set of wires and one or two reels, I made my most famous and precious toy – the roller. I would push it along wherever I went. In time, I had three reels all geared together and spinning as I rolled it along. For this I needed a big reel for the base wheel. In those days, there were no DIY stores or toyshops. One dug up, cut down, collected and stored everything of use. There were other items of interest on the shoreline, like sea-weed, etc, but I was not into them.

Needless to say, Bobby and I went out fishing in the family boat a number of times. These were usually short day trips. But on one occasion, we went out in the late afternoon, and rather further than normal. Towards dusk, on the way home, we were overtaken by a powerful squall. The winds suddenly swirled and we were barely able to bring down and secure the sail in time. The waves also swirled, suddenly rose and white-capped. Before we knew it, one big wave caught us broadside and capsized us. For small folk like us, it was a terrifying situation to be in. We surfaced beside the boat, and Bobby’s dad shouted to us to hold on to it – so that we would not be dragged away. Then, he cut away ropes and nets freeing us from being dragged under by the sail and nets. And then we witnessed an incredible feat of seamanship by the crew, something I dare say not often experienced firsthand by someone actually in the drink with them – and helping if I may add. First papa ordered: the crew to gather the bail buckets, and second collect the oars. These had gone overboard with everything and were drifting away. . In the driving rain, with the lashing waves, in the semi-darkness, this was no mean feat. It took strong swimming. It was at this point, that I realised why all bail buckets were made of upeh, the bark end of the arecanut frond: they floated. I learnt the fisherman’s cardinal rule with graphic realism: never to go fishing with bail buckets that sink. It was equally easy to apply the same principle to the oars. If you can’t find your oars, you are doomed. The next step was to right the overturned boat, which was floating on the surface upside-down.. Needless to say, I learnt my third principle of fishing there and then: never go fishing in a boat that sinks. It was an onerous task against the waves, but it was neatly done. The boat was turned over and was now floating the right way up but full of water. The third phase was to remove the water in the boat. The drill for this was itself fascinating. We spread round the boat, Bobby and I included. Then we began “rocking” it from side to side, teasing the water to spill out. It was slow work. But at last we got some clearance, while the

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quantity of water “spilling” out progressively declined. At this point we used our bail buckets: I learnt another cardinal rule: have many bail buckets. At some point, Bobby and I were ordered into the boat, and the others followed, after swimming around and picking up any of our entrails and gear floating in the vicinity. As I recall we had to sacrifice the sail and mast. The whole operation must have taken an hour. We headed back to shore. But by then the storm had blown us off course and we were coming in about a mile nearer the town. We had a further minor difficulty. The wind was still very strong. There was a big bonfire on the shore. The wind was blowing showers of sparks along the coast. Unfortunately, it was towards us, as we marched homewards. It was very uncomfortable and dangerous. By then, the alarm had gone out that we had capsized in the storm, and no one knew how we had fared and if were alive, notwithstanding that the routine for survival was well known. There were many anxious people on the shore, among whom were my Mom and my Dad. We all came back heroes, but I was administered the customary shelling for going out fishing so late (past dinner time) and giving them such a fright. Bobby’s family was equally happy to be back even though they lost all the fish and the sail assembly. I do not remember at any point being frightened not even during the initial submersion, for I could swim. But, having combated death, I came out taller for my seven years, and a more seasoned campaigner.

Unfortunately, we had to move. This time we took the upstairs front room of a two storey house further up Tranquerah Road, as near as I can make it at Lorong Kapitan. The house belonged to a Portuguese Eurasian family by the family name of Nonis, comprising two sisters one of whom had a child and was quite sweet and the other, unmarried and childless, was graceless and consequently not quite as sweet - to put it kindly. The latter was domineering and gave my Mum a terrible time. Not surprising, My Mum soon badgered my Dad to move.

In this location, I was cut off from the sea. But it had the compensation of being between the two big Chetty Malacca colonies. One of these was at Kampong Pantai across Tranquerah Road, and the other was Kampong Tujoh,.a little further inland along Gajah Berang Road. Kampong Tujoh was in fact the “heartland” of the community and where it joined up with Lorong Kapitan - at their interior ends -, there stood the Sri Anaglaman Parmeswari Temple. The house was in fact a mere hundred yards or so through the kampong to the seat of Chetty Malacca Hindu activity at the Sri Muthu Mairamman Temple fronting Gajah Berang Road. This was the period when “Anak Odiang” began to make his appearance among the community. We shall have more to say about this later. We lived here for about three months, which took us towards the end of 1942. After that Bobby and I lost track of each other, except in our memories in my case, and I am sure in his too.

Japanese Arrest My Dad

Two things happened at once, Firstly, my Dad did not come home for dinner one night, nor for several nights following. Secondly, when my Godfather, Uncle George de Sousa, heard about it, he told my Mum and me to move in with his family at No 10 Teck Chye Avenue for greater protection. We “vanished”.

After a while, word filtered through that my Dad had been picked up by the Japanese and taken to the Kempeitai headquarters. This was bad news, for this was a place for political prisoners. Since return to Malacca, I never quite got to know what my Dad did with himself. He was absolutely quiet about his activities. I doubt he kept my Mother informed; in principle he would not have done so. So, when he disappeared, one assumption was that the Japanese caught up with him in connection with his volunteer activities. Someone may have given him away. Another possibility was that he had been enrolled in some kind of mission in the event of Japanese occupation, and this had been found out. His place of incarceration foreboded this.

During this period we literally lived behind closed doors. Every knock on the door at night was a moment of terror. We prayed that he was still alive, but we had no news, and expected none.

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One day, after three months, there was indeed a knock on the window, in the middle of the night. The knock was faint, but repeated a number of times, and insistent. Uncle George cautiously opened the door, armed with a stick. We found a wild and bedraggled man standing there, with months’ of hair growth and a horrid beard to match. “I am Francis,” he said. After we got over the shock, we welcomed him in. Immediately we gave him something to eat and drink. Then, my Mother proceeded to bathe, de-louse, cut his hair and clean him. He looked horribly emaciated, with bulging eyes and sores. But we were happy to have him back. We were to discover later that, on release, he had no idea where we were, until told by someone, probably Mama Sundrum, to whom he naturally went first.

Over the next few days, he slowly let out some details of his experiences. On the night he was caught, he had been with a bunch of cronies in a room at the home of P. G. Pamadhasa, with the latter’s two brothers. At that point, they were secretly listening to the BBC broadcasting details about the war. All were arrested. PG was executed. They others were incarcerated and released after a period, like him. My Dad was severely tortured. There were the slaps, the kicks, punches, the whippings, and the beatings with a hose, The worst was the “water torture”, being pumped up with soap-water until drowning, and then have someone jump on one’s stomach to squirt the water out; several times, per session. He endured several sessions over his three months. The object was to persuade the victim to spill out information about fellow conspirators. My Dad stuck to his story throughout that he had gone to the place by chance and was innocent. Finally, they let him go on promise of good behavior: the next time it would be heads off. Both Uncle George and Mama Sundrum urged him to comply..

The Teck Chye Avenue episode was the darkest period of our experience during the Japanese Occupation. The only fact that kept our hopes alive was that there was no report through the grape-vine that he had been killed. On the other hand, we did not actually know that he was alive. In my recent enquiries, I picked up a faint threat of information that Mama Sundrum may have been instrumental in his release. Because of his standing in the community, Mama Sundrum was drawn in to head the local “jikedan”. This was the grassroots or village police system set up by the Japanese to maintain law and order. It was their job to patrol their area especially at night armed with stout poles, wearing arm-bands of different colours to denote rank. It was possible that he let it be known that my Dad was his relative and he could vouch for him if released.

Teck Chye Avenue

At Teck Chye Avenue, we were again in a new environment, a modern housing estate of mixed single and double storey houses. Besides Uncle George and Auntie Alice, his wife, there was their son Finian, a year or two younger than me, and Eric Ferroa, brother of Auntie Alice. The times were too troubled and no lasting relationships or memories were formed among us the younger set. Eric moved to Singapore after the war, where we were fellow civil servants. Our paths crossed from time to time. He was in the Land Office and I used to conduct Planning Appeals adjudication work for Ministry of National Development. The last time I met him was at the Cathedral of the Good Shepherd in Jun 2006 at the 150 Anniversary Celebrations of the latter. Finian I was told passed away in Kelantan (I think) some years ago without our ever meeting again. Auntie Alice and my Mom kept in touch writing to each other until 2003 when my Mother passed away.

Uncle George was a man with a powerful personality, a loud ringing voice, an oratorical turn of phase and emphatic views on things. In later years, on the brief occasions we met, he always impressed me as the “true” Malayan, the true patriot, the man convinced of his right, the right in fact of all Eurasians like him, through history, heritage and pedigree, to be called a son of the soil, a Malayan. and accordingly to enjoy all the political and other privileges as well as to shoulder all the responsibilities of that status. He was a passionate follower of the original great Malayan and leader of the nation, Tuangku Abdul Rahman, Malaya’s first prime minister, and was an activist in the politics affairs of the Alliance. Sadly Uncle George passed away.

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Our house was the end unit of a terrace row that abutted on a kampong of mixed composition, shaded by a small coconut plantation and other fruit trees. There in lived a Chinese man who made a living picking up small contracts to haul goods using his buffalo cart. And of course he had a buffalo. And when the buffalo was not working, he was tethered in the grass patch beside our house or simply let loose to graze there. He was big as buffaloes go, and not easily shooed off. In fact he had a fearfully full set of horns and most people walked around him with great circumspection. And this buffalo and I became great friends. I would at first sit daily just off his grazing circle, and watch him eat and chat with him. Soon we established eye contact, and I felt comfortable moving in closer. When he clearly recognised me, his owner, sensing a relationship developing ere, took me up to him to touch and stroke him. I was warmly gratified by the buffalo’s acceptance of me. After that, I would feel confident to do it on my own. The owner then showed me how to signal the buffalo using his tethering rope. This rope is threaded through his nose, which is sensitive. When given a signal properly the buffalo would respond willingly. But if you hurt him, you could have one very angry buffalo, and that’s not healthy for you. So, I could move him about and re-peg his grazing circle. In fact, in the end, I was able to climb on his back while he was grazing. To do this I had to position him near a tree stump or boulder for height. There was always a mynar or other bird who wanted to ride his back at the same time, to feed on his ticks. We got along too. There was no problem getting off. I simply slid down his neck on to his horns and hopped off. It was a beautiful friendship. He must have wondered what happened to me when we moved.

Kandang Lembu

When my Dad was in prison, he must have spent time thinking about what to do if and when he go out. As he recovered physically, we began to notice that there was a difference from before his internment. Previously we spent up to nine months moving from place to place. He had not been working. We kept a low profile. We seemed to be still refugees. Now his mind was clear. We had to get on with life. We had to make a start. The war would take its course. The British were on their own. The Japanese were here, controlled the world we lived in and we had to come to terms with them.. We had to pull ourselves out of the gutter. We had to find a place of our own. He had to work. I had to go to school. He started to re-connect with old friends and make new friends.

With few options, but still in a brave move, my Dad accepted the offer of Mama Sundrum to occupy one of the two cowsheds at his stables, known then and throughout out this history as “Kandang Lembu” (Cattle Stables). It is an extraordinary fact that, given her antecedents, my Mother should have agreed to living in a cow shed among cows at the furthest extreme of a track that led to a swamp. It reflected the family loyalty and belief in the new Dad, and that this was indeed a new beginning. I was now fully eight years old, and growing. Things could only get better.

For the geographically minded, our Kandang Lembu was located at the end of the extension of Meringu Lane. The latter, then a muddy track, is now known as (Lorong Maringu and the extension as Jalan Pelandok Puteh. We were located precisely where the latter today meets Jalan Kampong Empat, At that time, we occupied the last parcel of land on the right side of the along track. On the opposite side, there was a seasonal swamp. We were exactly on the edge between the lower wet swamp land and the higher orchard land. Beyond us and between us and Jalan Ong Kim Wee there existed a huge mixed plantation of coconut and fruit, of many acres stretching more than half way to Kubu (now Jalan Hang Tuah), left largely in a state of abandon. This was a fantastic bonus. We were never short of land and farmed the fringe areas around us, with prize-winning results as we had a limitless supply of cow-dung to apply as fertiliser. Each member of the larger Pillay family had his or her own little plot. About once a month, we had a “farm day” when everyone came and helped with the bigger jobs, like clearing or cutting new drainage lines, removing tree stumps, turning the soil, etc. On these occasions, there would be some dessert preparation and coffee for all, my favourite being boiled tapioca eaten with grated

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coconut and sugar. The orchard provided plenty of grazing, and coconuts, fruit and several varieties of exotic cooking vegetables to be plucked at will. Not too far from us was a small holding of coconut trees tapped for toddy. The tappers collected the toddy twice a day at sun-rise and sun-set, emptying the jars into the one at his waist and slashing the coconut stem to induce a fresh supply. These trees had steps cut into them, which made it easy (for 8 year olds included) to climb and quench our thirst. One other of God’s creatures had the same weakness, namely the flying fox. He only problem was he did not know when to stop, and when he was drunk clung to and remained on to the tree. It was easy to climb up and knock him on the head. From time to time, we had flying fox for dinner.

The cow sheds had a cement floor-base, with the stables and feeding trough mounted as a structure on top, and a good solid attap roof shelter that came low on the sides. The sheds had to have good drainage, for the stables had to be washed and swept twice a day. In a mighty exercise in “gotong royong” (mutual help) the Pillay family thoroughly evacuated our shed, cleaned the cement floor and drains, and put timber walls all around it with a front porch, and divided the interior into what would be called in Singapore today a “two-room” flat, of about the same size.

We did everything in the front half and slept in the rear half. My Mom soon set up an outdoor kitchen, and my Dad and I soon found out where to collect pipe water from – somewhere off Meringu Lane – using a “kandar” (a stout pole) with a kerosene tin hooked on at either end. I managed two smaller pails. We also collected rain-water and soon had a decent supply. My Dad and I bathed in the open. My mum bathed indoors. For toilets, we made the usual arrangements customary In the kampong. It did not take us long to become familiar with the ambient sounds and smells of a cow shed environment. We shared the nightly smoke-stacks with the cows, and so generally kept off God’s lowly winged creatures away. Over the last year, my Mom had of course become used to washing and drying out our clothes, and with time darning and mending the latter. Soon, like all the other (men) Pillays, I went about the whole day bare-bodied and bare feet except only for our much mended shorts of unrecognizable colour. When at work, the adult men, including Mama Sundrum, and the older boys would carry a parang on their hip – a protection and a tool of the greatest utility. I was too small to enjoy this as a privilege and a symbol. But of course, I too carried my own knife – I too needed to cut many things

At that time, the Pillays had a herd of four adult and three young cows, and one bull. The bull led a life of his own. He was managed by Inchik the second eldest son. On most days the bull would be working (drawing the Pillay bullock-cart for hire) In the evenings he fed on his own in his own grazing area, for he was a positive distraction if around the other cows – or the other way around. This bull had an attitude. He had no time for little boys and would even make a feisty move if I came too near. So we kept our distance. Cream in colour, he was a truly magnificent beast. With a gorgeous hump and a regal set of horns, he stood above six feet (excluding his horns). He was a “lembu Bengala”, a breed imported from Bengal, while the cows were of local stock and generally about five feet or less. With the herd the bull’s main function was breeding. He made a big production of mating, and as this was carried out with the cow tied to one of the coconut trees which formed a pillar of our porch, I learnt the principles and mechanics of sex with no ambiguity or misunderstanding, on our very doorstep. Later of course I would see and help the baby to be born. It was only left for me in due course to apply what I had learnt to humans, and in fact most of this I picked up from the ribald and raucous remarks of the spectators at the main event. Otherwise than for this interference by the bull, our heard of ladies led a peaceful life. Kamachi, the eldest, had gone lame and so stayed indoors. Anak Kamachi, her daughter, was the most striking of the ladies. The was also the elderly lady cow whose name was Enche Seng Ghee – presumably at some stage bought from a gentleman of that name. She would allow us to ride and play with her. The ladies were taken out to graze by mid-morning, after milking, and returned by evening for the second milking Sometimes, we would tether them, but most of them time, we took them out to graze free reign as a herd. The Sundrum family were the sole suppliers of fresh milk in that part of Tranquerah, much in demand for babies, with two deliveries a day, also managed

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by Inchik. So there was, in fact, a thriving economic model in operation. On top of that Mama Sndrum was by vocation a steam roller driver. He was soon back at his job. It was a spectacle to see him drive the steam roller around with commands, shouts, threats and imprecations like he was moving his bullock cart about.

After I got inducted into the stables work-force, I was entrusted with taking out two or three cows at a time to feed, but not the whole herd. It was also obligatory on each of us boys to bring back one gunny-sack of cut grass every evening. Being small, my gunny-sack was also a half size. The competition was to bring back the best grass. So, I got to know the best uncut grass patches in the neighbourhood. More importantly, I got to own my personal “sabet” (a curved hand-scythe with a diameter of about one foot), which I kept lethally sharp with my own “batu asar pisau” (sharpener) which came in the form of a longish tapering stone one dragged across the cutting edge - making a sound recognised by all far and near as that of a grass cutter sharpening his scythe. I have to say that nothing gave me more pride than sauntering out of Kandang Lembu of an afternoon, bare-bodied and bare-footed, in my shorts, with my scythe and sharpening stone wedged in my belt on my left hip and my gunny-sack slung over my right shoulder. There, I imagined people would say, goes a man on a man’s job.

As the months went by we settled down and our little home became quite cozy. I had a little billy goat, of mottled brown and grey with unusually diminutive years, who tried to eat anything and everything including the pants off me and was largely tied just outside our hut. We also had a cat, and hen. All three slept at night on the same platform in the corner of our hut, placed there to keep them warm and dry; they formed as charming a picture of friendship as one could find. The hen contributed an egg now and again, and the cat earned his keep by keeping the nice away.

Dad Returns to Work

Now that he was mobile, Dad found employment as an assistant manager of the local Kumiai, which catered lunch for the local staff working in the various offices occupying the Stadhuys, across the Malacca River. Dad used to walk to work, and from time to time I used to accompany him. For these occasions I wore proper clothes and shoes. It was a military type kitchen, with the staff lining up for their dollops of food, eating at rows of long tables seated on benches. The food comprised rice, vegetables and some fish. The rice was cooked in great big open vats on wood fires, and stirred with spoons the size of rowing boat oars. There was enough to eat. Most people tucked away as much as they could, for food was truly scarce, and there was no rice to be found anywhere in Malacca outside the kumiai. It was my Dad’s responsibility to see to the wash up and clean up of the place before closing for the day. There was always a thick layer of kerak (burnt rice crust) lining the bottom and sides of the vats. My Dad would instruct his workers to religiously dig out every scrap of it and distribute it to his staff and himself to take home to eat.

This kerak proved to be an great boon to us. My Mum would soak it in water for a day or two, and then scrub off the burn and wash it out until only what remained was precious rice. This she would loving dry out, and store, To eat it, we had to re-boil it. It was not great, but it was rice. We were the only family that enjoyed the luxury of rice. There was none to be had throughout the Japanese Occupation. The staple food was tapioca and or sweet potato. As a result, many people had beri-beri. From time to time, my Mon would pass over some supplies of our re-constituted rice to the ladies of the Sundrujm household. This was preciously received.

With my Dad earning an income, our condition improved. We were able to buy or replace some essentials, among other things some clothes. For the first time, I had some pocket money. ..

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Back To School

My Dad decided that it was time for me to resume schooling. He decided that I should go to a Chinese school, not a Japanese school. So I was enrolled in Yock Bin Chinese School. It is still in existence as Sekolah Kebangsaan (Cina) Yok Bin located (still in the same place) at the junction of Jalan Tan Chay Yan. and Jalan Kubu. I must have joined in the second half of the year, for the whole class seemed settled down, and I was parked summarily in the back row of Primary 1. The school enrolled both boys and girls. If the class teacher (and there was only one per class) thought I was a novelty she did not show it. She simply ignored that I was different and carried on delivering education in Chinese in the only ways she knew. My class teacher was strictly monolingual. It was left entirely to me to figure out what was going on. AT the same time.I was an absolute curiosity in the school. I was not only the only Indian in class, but I was the only Indian boy in the whole school – quite possibly the only one in all the Chinese schools in Malacca. . I was given the name “Pi Li “ (Chinese characters) which progressively established itself. But, initially at least, I was also known as the “Keleng Kuai” (Indian or Black Devil) and looked upon with considerable amusement, like someone who had appeared out of another dimension..

There were no Peranakan Chinese children in the school. They might have provided a bridge for me initially, by way of helpfully explaining some things in Malay or English. No teacher spoke Malay or English either, and all signs and announcements were in Chinese. The books, such as there were, were in Chinese. And worst of all, they spoke and taught a Chinese language I had not heard of. If they had used Teochew, I would not have had a problem, having mastered that dialect with Ah Leong years before, or even Hokkien which the Peranakans around us spoke. But, instead, they the spoke and taught Mandarin.

All said and done, I was not too stressed. You might say I liked the fact that the teacher decided to treat me on a equally basis as the others. It was a challenge for me to excel. I remember I scored straight zeros for all classroom work in the first week. But in the subsequent week and weeks, I began to pick up a mark here and there. This was my encouragement. The first thing I learnt was to identify words with actions (stand-up, sit down, come, go, etc) and then with objects and events (desk, blackboard, toilet, recess, etc.). Most of the commonly used words were repeated often. I got to using them myself. In this way, I think I put together a working vocabulary (maybe about 200 words) and was functional by the end of Primary 1. Looking back, I realise that this could only happen by total immersion, or as in my case do-or-die submersion. I had no outside sources of help either; no one in the family circle spoke Chinese, or heard of Mandarin for that matter. And as I went along, I discovered that knowing Chinese was essentially knowing words. There did not seem to be too much grammar, at least at entry level. There were only three things about a Chinese word. First one had to know what it meant. Second one had to know how to write it. And third, one had to know how to pronounce it. The old fashioned Chinese method of teaching was spectacularly effective. Each student had a blank book full of squares. The teacher would write a word on the blackboard. And we would copy it down at the top right hand corner of the (back) page. She would go round the class getting each student to pronounce it. Being at the back, I got it right most times after listening to the others – after some initial problems with my intonation or lack of it. Then she would get us to fill the squares on the page with the word. Of course, being Chinese, we used the ink stick and block and the brush. By the time we finished – sometimes we had home work – we got the word solidly learnt and our calligraphy in pretty good shape. The teacher also got us to remember lots of things by requiring us to recite them over and over again by heart until they were drummed in. I must say, the Chinese teaching system could not have suited me better. I am sure it was evolved from generations of Chinese conquerors teaching barbarians along their vast borders - even if my teacher enjoyed no such conceits. I was just another “numskull” at the end of the class, among the usual number of such educational aspirants that was the normal lot of a teacher in a school dealing with a cross section of rural children.

At the end of the first year, I passed credibly and got promoted to Primary 2. My teacher and I in fact got on well, and I think she felt some satisfaction in getting me through to the next level

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In my second year, I pretty much merged with the rest of the students. My ethnicity no longer intruded. I was just another Yock Bin student, treated with no concessions or discrimination. You could say I was becoming pretty much a “native Chinese speaker”. I never thought of it before, but you could In fact say that I had become a double native language speaker, in Chinese and English. This surpassed most of the teachers, By now I was also fluent in Colloquial Malay, the lingua franca of the Pernakan Chinese, the Eurasians and the Chetty Malacca., On top of that we might add my growing competence in Japanese as a second language, see below. I need not of course mention that I retained a passable level of Teochew, from my days with Ah Leong. I am sure my Dad must have smiled frequently to himself at how his son was growing up. As we entered 1944, I was nine years old.

Growing up in a Japanese World

Like good conquerors, the Japanese required every school to provide a Japanese curriculum. English schools became Japanese schools. Chinese and other vernacular schools had to run the Japanese curriculum in parallel. Yock Bin therefore ran a dual programme It was quite remarkable that, while conducting desperate war on several fronts, the Japanese had the in depth capacity and follow through to take over the administration of the land (in Japanese) and introduce Japanese education to their newly acquired subjects – all within a year of conquering them. The teachers were trained, the basic text books were supplied, and we all proceed to learn the Japanese language and culture. Yock Bin was not quite a bi-lingual school. Japanese was de facto more of a “second language”, although the authorities would not have agreed to that description of it. All explanations were conveyed in the principal language, Mandarin. So we had this fascinating situation that our little Indian barbarian was not only learning Mandarin from scratch, but Japanese via Mandarin.

And so I was plunged into the world of Nihongo, to give the Japanese language its correct title. By now I had got my learning formula worked out: name it, say it and spell it; one at a time. Japanese it turned out was syllabic, ie words made up of syllables, without appreciable tone complications. Words were therefore easier to remember and easier to say and easier to write, especially if you are starting from Chinese. They functioned with five vowels and 12 consonants. By combining these, one could get all the basic sounds needed to speak Japanese. At our entry level, we had just 5x12 = 60 sounds, less a few here and there not used, and so had only that number of characters to learn. They called their basic script Katakana. By combining the characters we got to write Japanese. Voila. Once you mastered the script, you could read anything written in Katakana even if you did not understand it – for the language was phonetic. Our teachers were quick to tell us that the Japanese script was originally derived from Chinese. Mercifully, they extracted, simplified and streamlined it, and so Katakana was no sweat to a Chinese scholar. Naturally, the Japanese added five more consonant sounds, as we were to learn. The Japanese even wrote it from the back page going down. – but have since abandoned this. Our teachers were also quick to point out that the Japanese also lifted Chinese characters and interspersed these with their script, which words they called Kanji. We were of course amused. We did not foresee that we would have any problem with Kanji The Japanese also had a penchant for inventing new Katakana characters, for example to express a dipthong, by adding a stroke or a dot here and there to the original. And finally, it was revealed to us that the Japanese had also gone on to invent a second set of script called Hiragana, based essentially on the same vowels and consonants., Not unexpectedly, they were somewhat different from Katakana, notwithstanding they were derived from the same Chinese roots. We were told that Hiragana was more facile and could be used without Kanji, and was in fact the preferred or standard script. Fortunately – or was it perhaps a pity that - the Japanese lost the war before we moved into Hiragana. To complete this story, the Japanese language has (since?) been romanised, which

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form is called Romaji. It is used for foreign names, etc. This I found out later. When we were in school, romanised forms were non-existent.4

Yock Bin was an interesting mix of Chinese and Japanese cultures. The authorities saw to it that the latter took root. Thus, at assembly every morning, the whole school stood before the Japanese flag and sang the Kimigayo, the Japanese National Anthem. It must have filled the Japanese with pride to listen to us children belting out this solemn and emotional song with full sincerity. Until today, I can sing it faultlessly. There was a lot of marching and singing in both Chinese and Japanese education. Naturally Chinese songs were not allowed. So we all learnt and sang Japanese songs – and I must say I got to like them very much. If we were taught their proper names I have forgotten most of them; I remember them mostly by their first few words5. First and foremost, there was “Mio To O Kai No, Sora Akite”, the principal Army March. Then there was the “Mamo Rumo, Semo Rumo, Uro Gane No...”, the Imperial Navy March; “Aruke. Aruke.”, the Infantry Marching Song, and of course there was “Momo Taro San”, which you will still find in kiddies’ anthologies on the Internet. The song that moved me most deeply was the solemn and sad “Umiyo kaba”. It was only in later years that I was to discover that this was the song sung by Kamikaze pilots before take off. Finally, there was one song closest to my heart, “ Mashi Roki” or to give its full title “Aikoku No Hana”. And finally there was “Cina No Yoru” which was popular in immediate post war years as :China Nights”. It was originally the favourite of the Japanese veteran soldier who had fought in China, and perhaps left his heart there. For this reason, I do not think they taught it in Yock Bin. Needless to say, I can still belt out everyone of these songs today, although I have lost half or more of the words in most cases - except for the national anthem and “Aikoku No Hana” which I retain in full.

And then there was the sumo pit, a very definite importation of the Japanese. We had one in the front open ground of the school, alongside our basketball court, these features representing respectively the uneasy co-habitation of our two streams of culture. Sumo was the Japanese form of wrestling. The pit, about 12-15 feet across, was filled with sand, with an elevated rim. I lacked the innate Chinese love for basketball. But the democratic spirit of the sumo pit appealed to me. On a one-to-one basis, you entered the pit and took on all comers, and held the pit until defeated. It was a sport with a great sense of honour. There was no referee, but you never broke a rules. You would be jeered by the ring of spectators. By some unwritten code of recognition, you also never challenged someone who was junior to or smaller than you. If you defeated someone bigger, your glory would be greater. Your sufficient reward was the approbation of the watching crowd. It was an unscheduled sport, and took place during recess, and before and after school. No equipment was required. The contestant simply stood bare-bodied and bare-feet, in shorts. I was by no means one of the champions among my peers, but good enough to win a lot of respect, which helped people forget ethnicity.

A co-curricular feature that I enjoyed very much was “agriculture”. Given the universal hunger and scarcity of food prevailing, every available patch of arable land in Malacca, including football fields etc, was turned to cultivation. It was both a Chinese response to the deprivations imposed by the Japanese - going back to their earlier invasions of China - as well as the pragmatic encouragement by the Japanese for the population to feed itself. On this score, both these peoples excelled in intensive agriculture and close farming, such as we were being taught. Every class had its modest patch within or adjacent to the school. We spread out in the vacant land towards the present Jalan Tan Chay Yan and Kubu Stadium. We grew tapioca, sweet potatoes,

4 Modern Japanese is written with a mixture of hiragana and katakana, plus kanji. Modern Japanese texts may also include rōmaji, (Roman letters), the standard way of writing Japanese with the Latin alphabet, eimoji (English script), non-Japanese words written in their own script and various symbols known as kigō.

5 6Naturally I learnt the words in Japanese, and the romanization I use here is purely is my present day phonetic invention, and was unknown both to me and the Japanese at that time.

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various vegetables and fruit. I quickly transferred my new-found know-how to the Pillay plantation at Kandang Lembu. My patch soon began manifesting significant differentiations. Following Indian feeding and agricultural habits, the plantations belonging to the other Pillays grew a wide range of traditional crops like lentils, maize, bitter-gourd, curry-leaf, puchok manis, serai, langkuas, bananas. etc. My patch on the other hand had in addition engchai, chyesim, pekchaye, sweet peas, Chinese celery, etc. There were of course the common items like tomatoes, spring onions, chillies, ginger, garlic. various gourds, etc. Strangely, we had no (white) potatoes (ubi kentang) at all during the Japanese occupation. The Japanese introduced their wonderful purple sweet potato instead, which flourished in my patch.

Life at Meringu Lane

No 9 Meringu Lane was widely known by the local population, Presiding thereat was Suppiah Sundrum, the head of our branch of the Pillay clan. He was better and more widely known as Enche Mamat (Mr. Mamat.) He was affectionately known by me as Uncle Mamat or simply Mama. His peers, his wife and my parents called him Mamat. He was highly respected for the healing and curative services he provided to the community, never overstepping the boundaries of his expertise. Within his limits, he functioned as the village doctor. He had inherited his knowledge and skills from his forebears, as well as the responsibility to administer to the needs of all who came to him. He held clinic every Friday evening, as I recall. There would always be a small throng made up of Chinese, Malays, Eurasians and Indians, waiting to be treated. His dealt a lot with dislocated and fractured bones. In the former case, he would re-set them, and the grateful patient would walk away after a loud yelp. In the latter case, he would send them off in splints. There was a famous case of a man who had fractured his thigh and was not getting better ln hospital. He is said to have jumped out of the hospital window and went to see Mama. Needless to say, he was cured – or there would be no story. Mama was sympathetic and gentle, listening to all the stupid ways in which people got themselves into trouble; and then he would fix the bone with a snap. Ladies came to see him for headaches and boils. Children came with cuts, sprains and inflammations. His main medical application was a hot ginger and egg poultice, to which he no doubt added what was required for the different conditions. At a time when medical services were minimal, Mama Sundrum performed sterling service. He never charged a cent, and he never refused to see anyone.

Mama Sundrum prided himself on being the best cook in the household. This is a vanity many an Indian head of family is inclined to believe in, as though invested in them miraculously upon assuming the premiership of the household. Fortunately or unfortunately, this notion is often pandered to by a humble and indulgent wife. But there are exceptions. In the case of Mama Sundrum, let it be said that he was a brilliant cook, a grandee of the species in fact, acknowledged by all including his wife. It was of course expected of him that he would actually cook from time to time. On the rare and auspicious morning when this would happen, he would stride into the kitchen and announce “Bapa masak.” (I will cook). The morning calm would be shattered. All the ladies would hurry into the kitchen, and he would make his choice of the main curry: “Ayam” (chicken). With that, he would march out to the local coffee-shop or other haunt for his regular morning pursuits.

His wife, Periachi (or Aunty Letchimy as I knew her) would immediately take command. Like a seasoned chief of staff she would decide all the complementary items for the table, and then proceed to issue the necessary executive orders, first for the main curry and then the other items. Someone would be sent to procure the fowls, slaughter them and prepare them for the pot. Someone else would go the market to buy and then prepare the necessary vegetables, etc. Someone else would be assigned to grind the rempah (the curry paste), and somebody else to procure the coconuts and then de-husk, grate and express the milk by the heads of thickness. Any youngsters found hanging around would be instantly commandeered to wash and dry all the cooking pots. The kitchen would spring into a hive of activity. Meanwhile, the word would go out

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to the family wherever they were: “Bapa masak”. No one would want to miss this, and soon the house would be filled. Even Bopy6 woud somehow find out and be there.

In the course of the morning, the various dishes would get cooked by the many daughters, under Periachi’s watchful eye. At the same time, the chicken and ingredients to go into the curry would be readied and lined up on the main table for cooking. The selected hearth would be lighted and brought to a screaming blaze by one of the ladies blowing through a metal tube which served as the human bellows. At this point, Periachi took control of proceedings and started the curry. With her experienced touch all would be finely judged, correctly sequenced and properly timed. The curry would slowly but surely come into being, and as it did so, its aromas would fill the kitchen and indeed the whole house. While this was going on, someone would inform his lordship that all was ready. Everybody made way and watched him anxiously as he arrived and processed into the kitchen. His features would be a study in concentration as he drew in deeply and allowed himself to be enveloped by the smells of the cooking. Periachi would then hand him the ladle, and suddenly there would be complete silence as everyone held their breadth in total expectation. The seigneur would then stir the curry for a few moments, pause to contemplate its consistency, and finally lift the ladle to his lips to taste it. He would then turn around to the company assembled and (with a smile) declare: “Sudah masak” (it’s done).There would be a huge wave of appreciation and pleasure, and everyone thanked him for deigning to cook. The meal would begin, with the men first followed by the ladies in turn, each in order of seniority as the kitchen table was quite small. And all would aver that nothing equalled the cooking of the grand master, and it was so. It was the kind of day that made Periachi very happy.

. One day, it was announced that Papathy, the eldest daughter, was to be married. This was probably in early 1944. High level negotiations had taken between the families concerned, of which we youngsters were not privy. At 26, she was comely, sensible, hard working, frugal, knew how to keep house and could cook, altogether a package any man would exchange his freedom for. The spouse, Ramasamy, was a upright young man, who worked at the waterworks at Bukit Batu7, some seven miles south on the way to Muar To us youngsters, Papathy was always a little bossy; so we were additionally happy for her to get married. It was my first wedding, Hindu or otherwise. For those interested in details of a Chetty Malacca wedding, you will find excellent descriptions in Mr. Samuel S. Doraisingham’s book, “Peranakan Indians of Singapore and Malacca”8. Sufice it to say that for one whole week, there were various ceremonies. Many were long-winded, involving solemn chanting and rituals and several changes of clothes by the couple. The temple drummer and clarinetist was in attendance throughout. Others, on other days, were less formal and lots of fun, involving throwing water and turmeric rice at one another, among other things. And there was lots of food and cakes brought by different people. Everyone helped. As I would learn later, Chetty Malacca folk love to get together, to feast and chat. In those days, there were few opportunities to do so, one of them being a wedding. Practically everyone was invited, and came, and made it as much their affair. As a result, you met whole lots of folk, near relatives, distant relatives or just members of the clan. After their marriage, the couple moved to the groom’s residence.

More Life at Kandang Lembu

It is not surprising that we should have experienced flooding from to time, living on the edge of a swamp. Usually, parts of the surrounding territory and paths would be flooded. We got water-logged in varying degrees. But, on one night we had a deluge. The next day we woke up to find

6 See Page 23 for details of this personality.

7 My memory fails me with the exact name. The names on the maps do not ring a bell , but the location is reasonably close.

8 See Footnote No 2

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ourselves soaking in an all might flood. of biblical proportions. All around us was a lake, from the orchard highland just behind us through to Gajah Berang Road. Kandang Lembu, including our little abode, was submerged in water. This water stretched over the swamp, with the tips of swamp grass hardly showing, normally about 5 feet high. There was more than a foot of water in our place. Everything had to be stacked above the bed. It was quite astonishing what one found floating in the water alive or dead, indoors and outside, from fish and frogs to drowned rats, cow-dung - and your neighbour’s and his pig’s sewerage. Going to Meringu Lane involved a dip in some places of over three feet of water. We youngsters loved the whole experience, mucking about in deep water. The flood lasted a few days, by which time it became decidedly unhealthy and people were getting diarrhea and coughing.. Cleaning was a monumental chore. Everything was caked in mud. I think it was the dread of enduring another flood like this that made my Mother pray for a quick end to the war.

Otherwise, being in the vicinity of the swamp had its merits. When we wanted to have fish party, the entire Pillay brigade9 would mobilise. We would dam both ends of a small river. Next, we would imply timba or empty out all the water. We would then descend into the muddy remains and catch the wriggling fish with our hands and buckets. We prized the aruan, which could be over a foot long. Mainly we would catch ikan keli (a catfish) and a lot of ikan betok and sepat, smaller fish which were excellent to eat fried with chilly and salt. The smaller sized fish we threw back – for the next time. We did this about once in three months.

We had our own poultry. However, we would not particularly resist the temptation to make a meal of someone else’s chicken if it strayed beyond its safety limits This of course was a matter of quid pro quo. Others were wont to do the same. We lost some and we gained some. However, no one would deliberately rob someone else. There was a decent level of honesty in our little world. This might or might not also be due to the fact that the Pillay mafia (me included) could in unison deliver swift justice, and extract retribution if need be. We also had a largish dog called Bopy, who mainly lived by his wits and would disappear for days on his forages. When he joined forces with us, the Pillays looked quite formidable. As a result, other families mainly chose to be on friendly terms with us, and we never suffered any disturbance or threat to our milk supply system. Needless to say, we smaller members enjoyed the protection of the group. For me this was important because I had to cross enemy territory to go to school daily. Even so, there was a code of honour strictly observed by the different groups. If I was accosted or threatened by a boy, I would challenge him to declare his rank in his group, ie first or second or third king. I had the right to call upon his counterpart in our group to face him at an appointed time and place. These were the unwritten laws of co-existence. In fact there was only one occasion in which I had need to call upon Kandan to intervene. If Bopy was around, no one would dream of challenging me.

At some point, I got possession of an old bicycle rim. This was the dream toy of every boy in those days. It was the equivalent to getting your own “wheels”. I lovingly polished off all the rust and honed my own tembusu “drive stick”. What you did was simply to push the wheel before you with your drive stick in the groove. On a good stretch of footpath, you could speed up to a good run, and on rough terrain, uphill, downhill and round bends you could control the rim precisely with your drive stick, bringing it to a halt to park wherever you wished. I would go everywhere with it. Steering the wheel required skill, and greatly increased the excitement and speed of getting from place to place. I was never without it, like a cowboy never without his horse. You could tell whether I was home or someplace else from where you saw my “bicycle” parked. It was my greatest joy, and think contributed to me in the end covering an extraordinarily wide radius of territory, visiting a wide circle of the Chetty Malacca families. It was of course at the wedding that I first got to know many of them, although I had made several forays during our stay at Lorong Kapitan.

9 The full brigade or mafia of the male Pillay boys comprised Sanasee, Inchik, Kandan, Krishna, Banyan – and me. Sanasee generally stayed aloof from our proceedings.

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There is one adventure I must relate, for it astonishes me even today. Some of the details have escaped me since, perhaps because I was admonished never to try it again. Somewhere along the line, we exchanged our big bull, Lembu Bengala, for a more docile bull who allowed me to get to know him. As time went on, I also learnt to drive a bullock-cart. In fact all the bigger boys could do this, and did so for various chores. And of and on various family members took a trip to Papathy’s place. I had also made the trip. Perhaps it was inevitable that one day, I should have taken it into my head to drive there on my own. And I did just that. I thought nothing of it at the time, but the journey was impressively long and not without danger. In the end it took about three hours. Bukit Batu10 was located on the great south-bound trunk road to Singapore, about an eight miles’ journey in all. But, first, I had to get past the guard a the Kempeitai headquarters near Meringu Lane. Next because the Malacca Bridge was down, I had to go down Jonker Street, and Temple Street to cross the river at Bunga Raya. This was the very heart of the old town. Then I was in the city. I went straight through it, via Bandar Khabar (now Jalan Temenggong), past Bukit China, on to Lorong Pandan (now Jalan Laksamana Cheng Ho) on to the Semabok Junction. I knew I was on the right track because even in those days there was a multiple road sign which pointed among other directions the way to “Singapore 156 miles”. From there it was about five miles down south. Somewhere between Kampong Jawa and Merlimau was the turning inland, via a dirt track for about a mile leading to the rubber estate in which the water works was located. Everybody was surprised, and a little startled. It was not a thing anyone allowed a nine-yea-old boy to do, more so with the family vehicle. There was always the risk of my not being able to manage an emergency, like the bull getting freaked, or us getting into a fracas by knocking someone’s goods over. During those lawless days, the risk of robbery of such a major income earning asset was also high. Then there was the personal danger to which I was exposed. My parents’ were relieved but very angry that I did not get their permission - which would have been refused. Back at Meringu, someone had noticed that I had driven off with the bullock-cart. But nobody knew what had happened. There were of course no telephones then. I do not remember exactly the details of the sequel except that Papathy’s husband drove me back with the bullock-cart. I was too overwhelmed by the attention and scolding of everyone. The nearest impression I have is that he immediately sent a message by bicycle rider (I suspect a relay of friends with bicycles) back to Meringu, and delivered me the next day. Actually, I enjoyed the drive immensely and felt no fear or anxiety. I believe I won a lot of regard from those around me, albeit secretly in some cases. It was good being a hero; I now realise one never achieves that status without doing something admirable, but not without it being dangerous and a little foolhardy

And then I was 10

Thus we slipped into 1945. And suddenly I was 10, and getting to be a big boy. Every boy learnt the value of money in those hard days. My Dad was working and therefore gave me a little, but for most boys, there was no such thing as pocket money. We therefore looked for every opportunity to make a profit, and took pride in growing our small savings. If we found a fallen coconut or fruit, or an empty bottle, or an egg or better still a chicken who looked very lost, we would pick it up and try and sell or barter it at the market. Occasionally we would dig up some sweet potato from our plot or harvest some beans or other and do the same, especially when we needed money. I enjoyed these habits and by the war’s end had saved $1,300 (Japanese Banana notes) – which proved worthless the day after. I do not recall but it was likely I picked up my “bicycle” in a trade.

At school I did famously. I passed my Primary Two without difficulty, Japanese and all. By the time we progressed to Primary Three at the beginning of 1945, I was a respected member of the school. At both the first and second terms examinations, I came out first. in my class. I read Chinese as well as I did English, and my Japanese was pretty solid. But thanks to my mother, I spoke and read English well. There was no third term.

10

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As the threats over his head disappeared, my Dad continued successfully in his job. With the comfort levels at Kang Lembu improved, we began to socialise more. My Mum, My Dad and I paid visits to the Chetty Malacca families we were related or close to - besides of course the Sundrum household of which we were a part. We did the rounds particularly at Deepavali, Pongal and the other festivals. In addition, I freely visited those that I liked, on my “bicycle”. I am happy to say “Anak Odiang” was always welcomed. No one had a better inventory of the special dishes and cakes made in the different households. My visits were programmed according to what was on offer and my fancy for the day, and finely judged ratings of competing kitchens and degrees of hospitality.

. War’s End

The War of course went on. Allied submarines were crawling around in the Straits, landing raiding parties and making more than the occasional attack at sea. Long-range bombers attacked Singapore. And in the jungle, Force 136 and other groups were waging a guerilla war. But, in Malacca town, at least in our kampong, the war had gone quiet. We heard nothing and knew nothing. We had no idea that the British and her Allies were mobilizing a re-occupation. And so we got on with our lives. The Japanese seemed less forbidding and we began to hear more of their language being spoken. A new colonial power was settled in and the resilient Malacca population prepared itself to survive yet another change.

The first inkling we had of the proximity of external happenings was the B-29 which crashed near Mt. Ophir in Mar 45. The news of the Japanese Surrender on 15 Aug 45 came as a complete surprise. The Japanese withdrew unto themselves. The sentry at the Kempeitai headquarters disappeared. Suddenly the MPAJA11, who were fighting the Japanese as guerillas, appeared on the scene from out of the jungle, claiming to be part of the liberation Forces. I seem to recall they took over the Kempeitai headquarters. They immediately began a reign of terror of their own, persecuting and killing people reported to have collaborated with the Japanese. The formal surrender of the Japanese to the British in all Malaya took place in Penang on 2 Sep. The main re-occupation forces landed in Morib on 6 Sep and would have got to Malacca by perhaps the 10 Sep. So for three weeks, there was chaos. The British quickly took control. The MPAJA withdrew into the jungle and not long after started the Communist Insurgency.

I remember being on Tranquerah Road, when the first convoys arrived from Port Dickson. As I recall, the first units to arrive were British. As they came through the population surged on to the street and cheered. We children seemed intuitively to know and call out to them “Hello Joe!” They in turn threw sweets and bars of chocolates to us. The British troops were followed by British Indian Army forces – in fact proportionately more of them altogether. The British established the British Military Administration on 15 Sep 45

Re-Occupation

The British authorities recalled my Dad to re-operationalise the MVC headquarters It was not a military command headquarters. It functioned as the local co-coordinating centre for logistics and supply services under the command of the British Indian Royal Army Service Corps (IRASC). In addition to occupying the MVC complex, they were billeted in the government offices and quarters across the road up the side of St Paul’s Hill. They also took control of the warehouses along the river-side adjacent to the MVC, to receive, house, break-down and re-assemble their in-coming supplies for distribution. The regimental transport pool was located in MVC itself. For reasons of convenience, efficiency and safety they moved my Dad’s family into one of the volunteer barracks in the complex. The unit based at the MVC was one company in strength.

11 See Foor note No

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Once again I was transported into a new world. It was a world I recognised but I was now 10, or four years older – and a war veteran in my own right. I quickly made friends with the Indian soldiers, and had a fairly free run of their camp on both sides of the road. It will not surprise anybody that I soon learnt and spoke Hindi This opened new doors. Among other things, I was popular as a multi-lingual and cross-lingual translator, a most helpful person to have to help them out in simple shopping and other needs. I soon knew the whole company, across all ranks. Besides my direct association with the Other Ranks, I came into contact in various degrees with the officers at the NCO and Officers’ messes through my Dad. For their part, the soldiers were comfortable being able to befriend a local boy who was knowledgeable, vouched for and therefore trustworthy.

Needless to say, I was visited the warehouses often, where I was welcomed by my friends on duty. In fact, except for the high security areas, I had a pretty free run of the warehouses. I had a pretty grasp of the storage and supply processes, particularly of the food rations which constituted a large part of the stocks. These comprised two categories, British and Indian. The contents were entirely different. The British rations were tailored for the European diet and came in cartons for four people – or it could have been for one person for four days. The common items included tins of cheese, sausages, corned beef, luncheon meat (SPAM), pork and beans, condensed milk, tea, sugar – and chocolates (MARS bars) . I think they included cigarettes (Lucky Strike), but my memory fails me here. I believe there were medical items like plaster, water purifier tablets, etc, but I took less interest in these. The Indian rations came in “kerosene”-sized tins, and I think they fed a platoon for one or two days. The items were meant for group cooking and eating. There were of course rice, flour and dhal. The other items included dried meat (mutton) known as “arta”, dried vegetables, ghee, condiments, salt, sweets, etc. Both categories were packed for air-drop as the ultimate form of delivery. But the war was over, and there was a mixed situation in the war houses. Most of the supplies had already been packed for the field (it was just two months since the war ended) but some items were already arriving in bulk form and were being variously delivered to camps loose.

We children were between educational worlds. The last quarter of 1945 was one long vacation. So, one day when one of my driver friends said he was going to Tampin to collect a load of supplies off the train, I asked to follow him and he agreed. With me was a Malay boy (I forget his name, bless him) who played with me, and who came along. It was exhilarating riding a 3-tonner truck lodged high in the space between the driver’s cabin and the body of the vehicle, clinging to the metalwork separating the two. Military truck drivers in wartime did not concern themselves with petty things like safety, and so he left it to us to look after ourselves. For his part he drove as fast as possible, which suited us. It is quite a unique experience to be in and soak up the sound of a heavy fully laden 3-tonner hurtling along at 70 mph. I dare say not many boys have the chance. On the return journey, a few miles from Tampin, unfortunately, the driver failed to hold a corner, and our truck hurtled off the road to the right, coming to a halt in a shallow ditch. I was flung clear. Except for my badly torn shorts and several painful bruises, I was alive and on my feet. I was in shock and dazed. My friend fared less well. His calf got caught in a metal cross strip, before he was ejected forward. He suffered a bad gash on his calf and had to be taken to hospital by the ambulance which arrived after a while. I never saw him after that. The driver was relieved that I was all right. After reporting quietly to him, I slipped off and caught a bus back to town – somewhat chagrinned by my torn clothes. By the time I got back to MVC, the news had reached the company and my father had been informed. After the relief at my survival, my Dad proceeded to give me one of his rare lessons with his belt. I was never to, and never did, repeat the stunt again. I learnt subsequently from the driver that my friend recovered and did not lose his leg. My driver and I, much admonished on both sides, did many a time afterwards recall the thrill of that episode. We were buddies united in a common dangerous mission.

My Dad worked hard behind the scenes to get us back to Garden City. And this duly happened before the end of the year. We were given back our old home. The new year saw us quickly

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rehabilitate there. We began entertaining our Indian soldier friends at home. There were two I remember fondly. The first we knew as Quartermaster, a tall, fair soldier with glasses and a moustache. He came over often. The other was a Corporal, a shorter more squarish man, also with a moustache. He particularly liked me for I reminded him of his two children. We were never short of rations, which was our for the asking. We liked the occasional British package, especially the SPAM and the MARS BARS, which we had never known about. My Mum liked to receive the odd tin of Inidain rations. Fresh meat was still expensive in the market, and she developed a truly excellent Mutton Curry using arta. In post war years, we were never again able to get arta.

The British Military Administration ended with the formation of the Malayan Union on 1 Apr 46, of which Malacca was apart; Singapore remained outside as a Crown Colony. My Dad continued to look after the MVC complex and its operations into the New Year, I have no exact dates, but assume that the facility closed down and my Dad was transferred to another civilian posting with the establishment of the Malayan Union. Most of the re-occupation troops would have departed by then. The latter was re-constituted the Federation of Malaya on 31 Jan 48.

The Chetty Malacca in the War Years

It is probably true that in war time people who tend to return to their kampongs, to live with their community for mutual protection and for the best chance of survival. Our family was a case in point. I have no reason to suppose otherwise with the rest of the Chetty Malacca community. It was in the circumstances a good time to take a census, but of course there was none, nor in fact any data. So, it has not been possible to carry out a proper stock-take and evaluation of the community. In the absence of the latter the best I can offer is some snapshots of the community, mainly of families that I came into contact with. Collectively, these may give us some sense of how they had faired in Ja[panese times, and the trends that affected them and were likely to affect them after the war.

I confine myself to people I have actually met and their families. The descriptions are not templated so as to be comparative. The choices are eclectic and the details unstructured. I put down what I remember Looking back and across, the samplesare reasonably wide, centering on Kampong Tujoh, the heartland of the Malacca Chetty. My contact time-frame was about three years, from our days at Lorong Kapitan (Sep 42) through to the end of our stay at Kandang Lembu (Sep 45), but of course we kept in touch with most of them after the war. What I reflect are people as I knew them or things as they were, at that time. However, I have not been cussedly time-bound. Where there has been relevant information of what happened afterwards, I have included it to reflect a trend or the actual progress of a person. Where I appear to reflect an opinion please bear in mind that this was the view of a boy not yet ten, and is subject to correction by those with more in depth knowledge than his purely first hand observation.

Among the key factors affecting the Chetty Malacca in between the stock-taking dates was education. Having previously lost their Tamil language, written and spoken, they took the opportunity to acquire a new and highly functional language: English. The first post-British generations who could afford it began sending their children to English school. This first cohort of Chetty Malacca children, when they grew up, in turn sent their children to English school. This second generation of children were joined by the children of many parents who had not themselves been to school before. My Dad was one of these. Judging by the cross section of families I met, about half of my Dad’s generation went to school. By the next generation, the high majority of boys were in school – but noticeably less of the girls. When it came to my generation, after the war, everybody went to school. Education led to changes in employment or desired employment. The latter in turn led to migration All these factors led to loosening of traditional ties, in some cases to changes in choice of their social milieu and sometimes to a change of religion. Even from pre-war days, we see the beginnings of the diaspora and emergence of members of our community to take their place in technical, professional and social life.

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At the time I describe, the Chetty Malacca by and large lived in and around Gajah Berang Road, concentrated at Jalan Kampong Tujoh. This little road formed a central spine through the Temp[le Lands on which the original core of Chetty Malacca homes were located, with a temple at either end. Kampong Tujoh, the original district allocated by the Dutch for the agricultural settlement of the Chetty Malacca radiated on both sides of this colony, from Bachang Road to the east to Tranquerah Road on the west. Gajah Berang Road itself formed the southern boundary. I could not however determine the northern boundary. Within this wider arc there were scatterings of Chetty Malacca homes. The second major node of Chetty Malacca habitation was Kampong Pantai, across Tranquerah adjoining the sea-front. Generally speaking the wealthier or more socially upward-mobile families seemed to have settled in the Kampong Pantai area. Meringu Lane, while on the opposite side of Gajah Berang, was part of this heartland.

My memories are essentially of the families I came to know.

Among my Dad’s closest friends was Mama Embong, or Mr. B. Sithambaram Naiker to give him his full name, He was the doyen of the community. Ten years younger than my Dad, he served a long career until retirement in the Postal Service. Sadly he passed away in 1985, also ten years after my Dad, at exactly the same age.. His major community role was as a trustee of the Sri Poyatha Venayagar Moorthy Temple, playing an anchor role in the management of its affairs. He will be remembered most for his pioneer role in researching and compiling the history of the Chetty Malacca, of whom he remains the main authority. His write up has been put up on the internet by his son Vengadasen Naiker @ Johnson, at http://malaccachetty.blogspot.com/2011/08/history-of-malacca-chetty-community.html. Vengadesan has now stepped into this father‘s shoes as a leader of influence in the community. A kind and gentle person, Mama Embong was known to me since I was a tot able to sit on the cross-bar of his bicycle. He was a good friend of my Mother. I last took my mother for drive from Singapore to visit him around 1983. Then, as during the war, he stayed at Kampong Tujoh, Gajah Berang, just behind the temple. Vengadesan became an electronics engineer and served in RTV Malaysia until his retirement, He is now 67. My last email from him was from London, where he had gone to be with his daughter who was giving birth to a new member of our Chetty Malacca diaspora. His strongest hope for the community is that while far-flung around the world, diluted by marriage, and belonging to different societies, our Chetty Malacca members and diaspora will remain proud of belonging to or being descended from the Chetty Malacca community, uphold their identity and cherish their history. He hopes they will support the temples in Malacca, which remain the core of their heritage and should be cherished by all whether or not they are Hindus. A large part of the prosperity and talent of the community today are located outside of Malacca. I for one am proud to have Vengadesan as a lead person of our community

A home I dropped in more often than any other was that of the late Mama Velu, or to give him his full name K. Velu Pendaram. He was a Committee Member of the Temple and was a very respected leader. His home was directly opposite to that of Mama Embong. He was older than my Dad, but his sons were younger than my Dad.. His wife, I regret not remembering her name, was simply adorable, probably my favourite aunty among the entire community. She was warm-hearted, always had a welcoming smile for me when I turned up, and never failed to offer a drink and a cookie. I also got to be very fond of the middle (of three) daughters, Kamachi, I believe, was her name. Always a smile, she was full of friendly banter and kind words. I invariably got a second cookie from her. The house always smelt of good food. I believe it was my Dad’s favourite among the Chetty Malacca homes. Mama Velu himself had not been to school, but his sons did. I became friendly with Nada, the younger son, who after the war worked as a Library Officer at the Malacca Library. He encouraged me to go there and slowly introduced me to what there was. The Malacca Library was in truth a pre-war relic, comprising books neglected for several years, and with nothing contemporary. But Nada showed me their set of an ancient edition of the Complete Works of Shakespeare, occupying a whole shelf, extensively edited and annotated. I had never heard of Shakespeare before. Nada told me it was good to read Shakespeare. So, I began. As there was nothing else to read, I virtually read the whole set. For a linguist like me, once I picked up the lingual style and cadence. I seemed able to settle in quite easily. The movies helped. Around 1949, there was a movie of “Hamlet”, but of course as a member of the post-war literati I knew all about the play before I even saw the film.

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http://malaccachetty.blogspot.com/2011/08/history-of-malacca-chetty-community.html

http://malaccachetty.blogspot.com/2011/08/history-of-malacca-chetty-community.html


May Botak’s house stood somewhere along the farther reaches of Lorong Kapitan,.between the Angalaman Parmeswari Temple at the end of Jalan Kampong Tujoh and the Sri Muthu Mariamman Temple off Gajah Berang,. May Botak was a small lady, with a stiff upright carriage and a narrow body frame. But she was far from fragile. She walked fast and talked fast. In fact you got the impression she walked so fast, her age could not catch up with her, for it was difficult to tell how old she was. The best guess would be about 60. She seemed to have a fondness for my Dad and always had a smile for “Anak Odiang”- and a cup of coffee. She left an impression she was connect to my Dad, but this was possibly a standard posture with her. My Dad never commented on it. She lived with Mama Tamby Kurus. He probably was her brother, but I never enquired. To confuse things, the name “Thamby Kurus” meant “the Thin One”. If possible, he was even thinner than May Botak. I believe Thamby Kurus supported them by working at various unskilled jobs. I did not know them long enough to find out about their antecedents or children and relatives. I remember him most because he was a very devout Hindu. He always took part in the Fire-Walking Ritual held annually at the Sri Angalamman Parameswari Temple. We never became close friends because of our age disparity, but I listened to him and followed him around to learn about what went on in the temples. Thus it was that on one occasion I found myself at the Sri Potthaya Venayagar Moorthi Temple in town watching the ceremonial chariot procession of the resident deity down Temple Street. Above the sound of the drums, the nadaswaran, and other instruments, were the chants of the devotees. But, preceding the train were the two Hantu Teteks, dancing to clear the way. They are unique to the Chetty Malacca tradition. They comprise a hollow wicker frame dressed on the outside rather fearfully with tongues handing out, like the Rangda of Bali. A devotee in an appropriate frenzy will ask to go inside it, pick it up and dance, swinging its hands around. They are filled with sand and therefore quite painful if hit by them. There was also a third smaller “hantu tetek”, danced by the young folk. Not to be outdone, I took my turn and was both overjoyed and honoured to do the Hantu Tetek dance in ritual procession.

I only knew him as Mama Velu Susu. He and his family resided on a farm at Bachang on the outskirts of Kampong Tujoh, along the main road connecting Malacca to the north-south trunk road. It was a sizable farm, with a rich collection of fruit trees and a coconut smallholding immediately behind the house. There was some cultivation, but the main activity was rearing cattle. The main family business appeared to be milk production. He was one generation older than my Dad. He seemed to be a man of means, possibly his was the last of the agricultural families which the Dutch unsuccessfully tried to encourage. He seemed to have come through history successfully without the prop of an English education. Mama Velu was a very distinguished person. He was a man with great dignity. Sturdy and sun-tanned dark, he stood ram-rod straight and tall. He always wore a pure white scarf-like cloth round his head tied in an informal turban, which added to his height. He had a gentle voice and a warm smile He was the sort of person one revered. I often heard others in conversation say, “let’s ask Mama Velu for his opinion.” He had a wife with a gracious personality, who exuded warmth and hospitality I remember he had one grown up son who seemed to be helping him with running the family business. They were too far away for me to drop in often, but I continued to do so even after the war, cycling all the way from town. I had the vague sense that my Dad was related to Mama Velu, and so our families were close in some way I never did find out.

The next person I had always known as Uncle Gurusamy. That was because our families had associated with each other from pre-war in an English-speaking world of fellow civil servants. Uncle Gurusamy was I believe senior to my Dad and was a Postmaster. This also meant he lived in quarters at his post office, which I distantly remember visiting. It would have been outside Gajah Berang. Thus, during the Japanese occupation, we hardly came into contact. The great point of interest is that his charming wife, Achi Pok, was the lady my Dad was originally linked with for marriage, but that fell through because they were too closely related. Uncle Gurusamy was a trustee of the Temple, .and was an influential community leader.

Among the affluent looking Chetty Malacca residences on the Kamppong Pantai side was the home of the late K.L. Chitty, In fact it had its frontage on Tranquerah Road and extended backwards to the sandy road which was Kampong Pantai and which bordered the sea. He was a senior respected community leader and a Temple Trustee. Belonging to the generation before my Dad, he was a teacher at the Malacca High School. That made him probably an education pioneer among the Chetty Malacca community. I visited his home with my parents a number of times, before, during and after the war, but formed no lasting links or impressions.. I recall he had a daughter who was married to Mr. Saurajen. The family of the latter occupied a detached bungalow

29


built to the rear of his father-in-law’s property and fronting Kampong Pantai.. They had a son and a daughter, Sachi and as I recall Indrani. The former would in due course become a lawyer, and would have a successful practice in Singapore with one of the bigger law firms..

The residence of the late T.C. Pillay was not more than 100 yards from the preceding household. They too had a frontage on Tranquerah Road and their home also extended back to Kampong Pantai; only they did not have a secondary building in their backyard. So, there was a lot of sand to play in, and we had a wonderful time. There was always a serenity about the house and the welcome was spontaneous. Mama TC Pillay was of the same generation as my Dad, and was a well-known teacher at the Malacca High School. He was also a respect4d leader of the community and a Temple Trustee. I recall his wife well, a sweet slender person who if I am not mistaken was called Nonya. My mother and she were good friends, and we visited often even after the war. They had three children, two daughters and a son, The latter was my age and his name was I believe Mickey. Inevitably, we lost touch. When last I met them, in Singapore, in the mid-1980s, the family had converted to Christianity and one or more ot the children were going off to Cambodia to dedicate themselves to missionary work.

The most famous Chetty Malacca home in Kampong Pantai was undoubtedly that of Achi Manga, I remember the residence as a sprawling affair, with an elevated concrete balai (platform) on either side of the front porch and a large kitchen annexed to the main building as was the typical architecture of houses in those days. It was a large family, and there were always many people about, busy or just dropping by to chat. And no wonder. Achi Manga was famous for her cakes. In fact she made quite an industry of it, marketing them through pre-orders and house-to-house delivery. There was, of course, always something to sample just out of the oven. Anak Odiang was frequently to be seen there, and he swears they were the most fabulous cakes in the whole world. . He was always welcomed. I never did find out Achi Manga’s full name, or meet her husband. I know my Dad felt very close to her, and it Is possible they were related in some way. Next door was the residence of Bilaidong, who had a large family of sons. One of them, my age, Chan Pillay, migrated to Singapore and worked for many years in sales and distribution for Fraser & Neave. We ran into each other off and on.

To complete this picture of the evolution of the community, I should mention that there was a Sandy G Pillay, of my father’s generation if not before,. He became a lawyer, and practised in Singapore before and in the immediate post war years, possibly the first to become a professional in the community.. He married an Irish lady and had twin daughters, Joan and Terry, older than me, who were quite well known in post war years, one a reporter and the other (I think) a radio presenter..

Finally, it is fitting to end by looking at the Sundrum family as the war ended and thereafter. Mama Sundrum continued to work as a steam roller driver. On a typical afternoon, one could find him on a nearby road, astride his “stead” He would spit on his hands, ram in the gear, holler and curse as he willed the mechanical beast to do his bidding - rather like John Wayne would do at a later time when taking his covered wagon across the Red River. Sanasee left for Singapore in 1947 to work for the Singapore Harbour Board (later to become the Port of Singapore Authority). He married Letchimy in 1950, the, grand-daughter of Ardy Pillay. The couple lived with our family until 1953. Their two eldest sons, Arunasalem @ Victor and Philip-Roy were born during this period. By then, Sanasee set up his own residence in a rented tenement at Trafalgar Street and eventually moved to PSA quarters at Everton Park. He retired as a senior Traffic Officer in 1987, by which time the couple had a flourishing family of five boys and two girls. His younger brother, Kandan, became a Survey Technician after the war. He married a Chinese lady in Kelantan. Their daughter graduated from a university in Russia, and is now a practising medical doctor in Malaysia. .Younger sister Batak married and the couple settled in Singapore since 1970s. Their son Perumal is a prosperous security contractor. Younger brother Krishna migrated to Singapore in 1948. He worked in the civil service as a Messenger and remained single.. Inchik married and stayed in Malacca, succeeding to the family business. Banyan also stayed in Malacca assisting Inchik and working in various semi-skilled and unskilled jobs, Ponoy, always sickly, passed away soon after the war..

My Dad’s Ancestry

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And there remains the mystery of the alternative history of my Dad, alluded to earlier12. I had heard my Mum talk of one Chelong as my Dad’s forebear. Other strands of information, mainly from the Sundrum household, suggest that Nenek Kathai originally came from a family who lived in a “rumah batu” (brick house) in Tranquerah and were people of some means and influence. My Dad was brought up and sent to school by them after she passed away. Further inferences suggest this family might have been Chelong’s. If all this was true,it was strange that my Dad never took us there. One possibility would be is that there was a complete break when my Dad changed his religion, so much so that he was no longer welcomed by them, nor did he turn to them when in need or wish to introduce his son to them. This is an extreme conclusion. The situation was all the more mysterious in that there was no indication during my contact years on the part of any one or evidence of this story and of there being such a family link. I did not engage in a quest to find out. Indeed I was oblivious to the story at the time. So, it seems, It was either protected from me by a conspiracy of silence or there was no truth in it whatever. So, now I am on a search, and it continues. There are three threads still to follow. The first is that there is listed as a Temple Trustee, the late Chellong Pillay, a High School Teacher. The second is that there is in Singapore at least one family who have a Chellong as an ancestor and who are related to my Dad. The third is to try to establish my Dad’s linkage with Achi Poh, which may lead to a common ancestor. If any one has relevant information that can help, I shall be grateful to know. To date I have not have the opportunity to examine the registry of birth records of my Dad. I hope to do so at some date.

Conclusion

This record may or may not give an accurate picture of the community at the end of the war or even a proper picture of the families mentioned. They remain a boy’s impressions. They are best thought of as tracers, for follow up. If they stir some interest in those who still survive to come out with their own stories, they would have served their purpose. If I have mis-conveyed any information, especially about families, persons and even names, I sincerely apologise. I appeal to those who know better, particularly the members of the families I mentioned, to correct what I have said.

I thank those who have read this, and hope they may find it of interest to follow the remaining Chapters when they come out. I shall try to capture the growth of the community ii Singapore. Better still I hope others may go one better to write about the community in present day Malacca and other centres where we have settled..

* * * *

2nd edition19 Jul 2013

12 See Chapter Three, Pre-War Years, My Dad’s Schooling, Page 46

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