Under the star fruit tree, we played make-believe masak-masak. We used imagined utensil to stir-fry its leaves. Then, we garnished the dish with the delicate magenta flowers from the same tree and finally served it with pretend-rice, which was nothing but the soil of the earth. The sandy soil also doubled as cake mixture or pancake dough at our command.
Besides masak-masak, one of our favourite role-play was pretending to be poor. Ya, get over it….! For whatever reason (the 60’s Cantonese movies that we watched with my mum and grandma?), pretending to be poor seemed fun, lol! Our hand-quilted blankets would end up as the roof of our humble abode and we would huddle in a corner to escape the pelting rain which threatened to drown all our precious belongings, usually pillows and bolsters!
Our versatile pillows and bolsters also became our stepping stones as we attempted to cross raging rivers. Our games would be peppered with conversations, in pretend high-pitch adult voices - the more urgent the situation, the higher our pitch!
Toys were rare. I don’t remember getting my first doll until I was in primary school. It would seem my mother preferred sensible, affordable toys. I remember a set of building blocks, not Lego, but those wooden Made-In-China ones, with pre-fabricated columns, windows and arches.
From the same shop in the vicinity of downtown Petaling Street, my mother later got us a box of wooden reading tiles, also Made-In-China, with pictures on one side and both Chinese and English inscriptions on the flipside. My mother thought it was an educational toy but unknown to her, we privately used those 3cm by 3cm tiles to play our version of mahjong and other card games.
Not all memories are sweet. In May 1969, when KL was reeling from racial riots, we had curfews. I was too young to know what was going on but I remember we were kept indoors for days with all our doors and windows shut. Curious as to what was going on outside, I remember peering out through the slit under the door to get a glimpse of what was happening outside - which, luckily, was nothing. The area where we lived was a traditional Chinese stronghold.
But stories of senseless killings filtered to us by word of mouth and for months after May 13, there were many areas in the city that we continued to avoid. My mother was expecting my brother at that time and I have no doubt that it was a stressful time for her. As a young girl, I could already sense the gravity of the situation, though not fully comprehending the far-reaching impact these events would have on the Chinese community in years to come.
Now, more than 4 decades later, the house No 11 where I spent my childhood is still there. Strangers now occupy the place. As I approached No 11 in my car one hot weekday afternoon, the street was quiet and still, without a single soul in sight, notwithstanding that there were cars parked bumper-to-bumper on both sides of the street.
I felt a sense of deja vu. The compound in front of the house was now cemented and the star fruit tree was no longer there - in its place were several potted plants. But the patterned grills of the gate were the same, painted in the same silver paint, and the bamboo roll-up blinds still remained more than 40 years later to shield the occupants of the house from the afternoon sun.
For a while, I was transported back in time.
I saw my mother talking to our neighbours: the family living on the third floor, the spinster and her father across the road and another family two doors away. Mun Soh, Biew Soh, Lei Ku Leong... At that time, the community spirit was strong.
I saw us - me, my sister and my younger brother - cycling up and down the pavement. It was safe then. And I remember the spot where my brother fell from his tricycle and caused a panic.
And I saw my deceased grandmother sitting down and eating her favourite curry chee-cheong-fun with us. She was probably smoking and grumbling too, for her bark had always been known to be worse than her bite. But she had a heart of gold. And we, the children, were her treasures.
My first home was the ground floor unit of a 3-storey walk-up apartment block in the "East End" of KL (see above). We lived with my maternal grandmother who, bless her, took care of me and my mother. My father went for a World Tour shortly after my birth. A World Tour was a big deal at that time and I believe he was away for months. I have seen a photograph of my father at the Macao landmark, Ruins of St Paul, and some postcards that he wrote to my mother in his well-formed cursive handwriting.
