Toa Payoh

Back from another surprising day of visiting my relatives. And between bouts of Cantonese that are too fast to follow, that leave me in an almost catatonic state of confusion, and the acute kindness of relatives that have last met me when I was a toddler, relatives that I have no memory of, save for the wholesome homemade tidbits made by their own hands that always appear without fail on our Chinese New Year snack shelves whether we visit them or not, I begin to detect the beginnings of the pain of parting. There is a special sadness, in saying your goodbyes, when there is no guarantee that the goodbye would be followed by a reunion. I find myself starting the process now, in this bout of visiting; and the process will end in August, at the Departure Gates.

Spent the evening in Toa Payoh, visiting my parents' friend from their university days, and playing with her three chihuauas and one ancient white-furred dog as old as my earliest memories. For some reason, that dog never liked me, and I fear it never will, even as, or perhaps because, it grows older and wiser. But even this yearly rejection is comforting in its familiarity. And then, went to the old Toa Payoh church, my first church, and was surprised to see the same priest that I remembered from childhood still celebrating the Eucharist in the old way, even though the church surrounding him had been renovated almost beyond recognition. Singing the old hymns, the ones that worship rather than evangelise, sent chills down my spine. And after dinner, walked down the old Toa Payoh streets with my parents and Marcus, reminiscing about how the town used to be like, back in the days when Toa Payoh still had fields and cousins were few and we played Police and Thief and Crocodile and What Time Is It Mr. Wolf in the great grassy expanse behind Block 157. Magic numbers for magic moments.

Toa Payoh still remains poignant with memories for me; every street and building has a tinge of nostalgia, and seeing the town change has only heightened that sense of familiarity, because you identify even more strongly with the parts that have stayed the same, and you recognise your memories in small, unexpected flashes, in nooks and corners scattered throughout the new visage of the place. Like I said, the skin and the flesh may change, but the bones of the town remain the same, and this makes any return an indulgence in memory.

In the night, especially, I feel a strong affinity with the place. The darkness melts away details and textures, and swallows up the embellishments, so whatever remains resembles what I remember more closely. By night, the same scene is leaner, as you can only see certain things, and you can concentrate and read these things with deeper detail. Spotlights reveal a familiar feature here, and throw the new things into stark silhouettes against which the old stuff are dramatically contrasted.

I think, before I go, I will take a camera and record down what I remember of the places that have been important to me, so that I can take these familiar things with me. And I will write another love story for this city, still deeply and faithfully loved, despite the glamorous allure of other places.