Bastille

Went to KHwee's place for another of our class gatherings on Saturday, staying over for the usual fare of cards, board games and Munchkins. And, as usual, it was uproariously hilarious; I will never get tired of the antics that we can get up to at his place. They are all of a theme, but the variations on the theme are multifarious enough to keep me hooked. In this way, there is the certitude of entertainment and camaraderie, with the tantalising possibility for surprise.

What we got up to, I think, will not be related here, but will still join the canon of stories that we can look back on in the future. Over our usual prata breakfast at the usual place, as the sky lightened and the clouds turned rosy, we reminisced about the strange and fantastic happenings in class all those years ago: the idiosyncrasies of various teachers, our little traditions, the games we played and the conversations we had. I've said it before, and I will keep saying it: there will never be a class like ours ever again in The Chinese High, partly because the school would do everything in its power to avoid the formation of a class as troublesome as ours again, but more importantly because we were the unique product of a distinctive meeting of circumstances and personalities.

Over breakfast, one of us pointed out something really true, that we all share the same stories, and all it takes is a well-dropped name or punchline to trigger the memories in everyone. These conversations thus seem to consist of a lot of incomplete sentences and much more guffawing. In JC, and I reckon in college to come, my friendships tended to be based on memories that are shared one-on-one, whereas in secondary school and, to a lesser extent, in the Army, relationships are founded on collective experiences. It is a different sort of camaraderie; in a way, it is stronger and more dependable than individual links. Memories draw strength from their bearers, and the more there are, the longer they last, and the better foundations they tend to make for social relations.

There is, then, a kind of oddity and unlikelihood in this circle of friends that continues to surprise and fascinate me, I who stand amidst a phenomenon that, quite frankly, I had not expected to outlast secondary school. And the thing is, I can see us continuing on just as we are right now, no matter where we go over the next few years, what will happen to us in the intervening time, and who we will be when we come back and meet again. I look around the table, and I see future doctors, government officials, business leaders, academics, bankers and artists; but I also see familiar faces and younger times. I put the extra effort to keep in touch with people mainly because of two reasons: firstly, it is so easy for the shared thing to be eroded, and for people to drift apart and for the past to fade away. But, parallel to this, it is also delightful to do so, and this delight is based on a conviction that these people will fundamentally never drift away. And it is my belief that this particular circle is based more on the latter than the former; this means it is very precious, and its robustness and fortitude in the face of changing times makes it even more so.

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Yesterday night, my parents laid newspaper all over the coffee table, got a plastic bag ready for the seeds and shells, and cracked open six durians. It was a feast. I had not tasted the fruit since Borneo earlier in the year, and it was good to bite into the creamy flesh and lt the thick, heady sweetness suffuse my mouth again. I find that durians eaten at home taste nicer, their taste perhaps being enhanced by the fact that Singapore imports many high-quality durians to fulfill the cravings of a demanding audience, but also by the accompanying family members all gathered around the opened shells, some periodically standing up to crack new segments and to pass around the prickly shells with the yellow flesh nestled within.

And afterwards, like I have been doing since time immemorial, I chose a particularly deep shell and filled it with water, cradling the makeshift vessel and sipping the curiously fresh-tasting liquid from it. Apparently, the water from a durian shell is meant to clear the smell from one's breath and to help the thick, dense flesh sit better in one's belly. But the scent of the fruit will continue to linger on one's fingertips like a memory, like a shadow, for days on end.

*

An old teacher and friend sent me the link to this song yesterday, and, listening to it, I am once again struck by how much beauty is within the power of people to create. This song, and this particular rendering, is truly beautiful. Listen to the words carefully, and look at Mandy Patikin's face as he sings; he borrowed the words from a musical, but he adds his own meaning to that which the words bear naturally. In his face, and in his voice, lie stories and the combined weight of the past and imagination.