27 Dec – Closing thoughts

Should I be writing the way I speak? Or the way I think?

I had lunch at the neighbourhood hawker centre in the heartland of Marsiling. A common ritual among the fellowship would be gather collectively and proceed to the place to have lunch together and banter about the passing week. This time was different, with few of the members I knew at service, and with me waking late to attend another mid-morning service, I felt more inclined to have lunch alone.

The order was made for fishball noodles with soup, with a mix of yellow noodles (with eggs in the dough) and flat vermicelli. The mix is popular because it gave an interesting texture to the dish, an oriental el dente complimented with the savoury soup base, a sort of elasticity which could only be described with what the Taiwanese call “Q q”, to accent the springiness of the dough of different sorts. Fishballs were the favoured Asian dish of the wife of an middle eastern friend, who happened to be visiting the Island the same week. That thought came to mind as I ordered myself a bowl with soup, a conscious choice as I was nursing a persistent cough. He commented that his wife would be doubly jealous of the hospitality shown to him, particularly so since she was in the throes of summer school, having delayed her education for him as he pursued his studies with the rest of us in the US.

There was an old lady sitting next to me, much closer to the noodle stall. Her withered hands trembled and her head demonstrated an uneven cock that indicated that she had the signs of early Parkinsons. She did not look neglected, however, and seemed perfectly fine in getting her lunch of Mee Pok Dry in front of her, paying the gentleman of the stall and proceeding to flip through the flat strands of yellow noodles to cool them to her palate’s liking.

For a moment, a sense of feebleness came over me. It was not the sense of mortality that was shown by the old lady that overcame me, nor was it the silent sense of strength that was demonstrated in her display of independence in the hawker centre. Rather, it was a sense of feebleness that could arise out of insignificant comparison. I had choose to sit alone that rainy afternoon although I had no need too – it was a personal choice. Similarly the old lady was alone, leather bag and all, fine except of the tremors and awkward moments of losing control of the strands of the noodle that would slip from the grasp of her chopsticks.

Singapore is a city of 4.5 million people. We will probably meet a couple of hundred people face to face in the course of our lifetimes. What of the rest?

Instead of waxing wishful rhetoric, I would prefer to delve into the stories they would have to tell. Who knows what insights we might be able to garner out of the life experiences of the millions who live? What living consciousness can we turn to for these before they end their lives. That role perhaps, is fulfilled in the beating hearts of our children and friends.

A colleague once berated me of my insular nature, in all good concern for my personal well being. He said, “You carry on the way you do, and don’t be surprised that on the day of your funeral, no body shows up. I’ve seen it. It’s a depressing sight.”

Not that he was being rude in any way. He had a point. It is a unfortunate product of progressing in life that we lose contact with the people we know and grow up with, that these relationships be down played and cast aside without any consequence. It takes effort to maintain these relationships, and even then, there may even be a preference not to maintain such relationships, for fear of revisiting a past one might be inclined to discard.

And what of this and my sudden feebleness?

I had made a conscious decision to be more approachable, more friendly, knowing that it was a trait that was long discard as a child. It dawned upon me that I had caught myself lapsing into the habit of isolating myself that moment at lunch.

At yet, I found a solace in the fact, that like the old lady, I would be able to get on with life, even if I eventually became a “Wandering Jew” in my twilight years. Perhaps I find it comforting that one can proceed to live with dignity even in our later years, and continue to take consolation in the fact that our own personal stories will keep our heads up high.

Thoughts for the End of 2009