Returning

On Boxing Day morning, I woke up in my old bed and realised with a sense of relief that I am home.

There are certain sounds that are particular to my home. Rather than the wailing sirens, sudden delighted screams and murmur of unseen aircraft of Manhattan, here there are only the sounds of children laughing, of the distant hum of the MRT train, of a drill running at a nearby construction site. I hear the distinct hollow sound of doors opening and closing in my home, of people walking around barefoot. I feel the warmth in the air, the firmness of my old bed. It is a deep sensual familiarity that I woke up to this morning. And my first thought was that although my room in Columbia is definitely mine - I had gone through a lot of trouble to make it that way - my room is not the same as my home.

Coming home was easier than I'd expected. Rather than being oppressed by the heat after sub-zero temperatures in New York, it was easy to adjust to the pleasant humidity here, and it is a definite pleasure to be able to walk around without worrying about windchill or frostbite. And though there's now a new lift shaft in my old block of flats, practically nothing has changed around here. And what struck me the most, things that I'd taken very much for granted until this return, were the quiet purring of the MRT trains (not the obnoxious clanging and screeching of the subway), the cleanliness of the sidewalks, the sheer space between the high-rise apartment blocks, the greenery all around. And compared to New Yorkers, Singaporeans are really gentle and polite. Rather than coming off as standoffish, the people I see on the streets seem more respectful and courteous. After the cramped exuberance of New York, Singapore streets and Singapore life seem to me to be so luxuriously spacious.

Don't get me wrong: liking Singapore this much upon my return doesn't mean that I didn't like New York to death. Both places are wonderful; even now, I'm thinking what it must be like to spend the last few hours of Christmas in New York, what it must be like for the people that I left behind there. Singapore is not New York, just as New York is not Singapore. What I am coming to realise, though, is that neither is mutually exclusive. Indeed, they may even be mutually reinforcing: liking one seems to make my love for the other stronger. Each is endearing in and of itself, but each becomes even more compelling when seen in contrast with the other.

*

Went down to the hospital yesterday to see my uncle for the first time. As a general rule, I don't like hospitals, but the visit wasn't as hard as I'd expected. The hospital staff were supportive and gentle with us, and those people who came to visit didn't seem overcome or romantic. It does help that people are facing this with a minimum of drama, rather preferring to approach this as practically as possible, doing all that needs to be done, without indulging in self-pity. And it is true: simply being here makes a difference, both for my own peace of mind and for that of my family.

All things considered, despite everything that has happened, I guess it really could be worse. The doctors tell us that his vital signs are remarkably good, and that he has already lasted longer than expected. Of course, they are also careful to avoid rousing unreasonable hopes. But it seems that at some level, he is still unquestionably alive. I hesitate to say whether or not he is alive enough to recover. Perhaps that would be asking too much. But he is still here - and as for the rest of my family, we are all still here too, together and with him.

It is uncanny, though, to see that familiar face transformed by illness and by the medical machinery that is entwined around him. The readouts are cryptic, and I spent quite a bit of time yesterday trying to decode the hieroglyphs on the monitors: acronyms and waveforms pregnant with undeciphered meanings. The familiar face, too, is opaque to my understanding, uncommunicative, unapproachable. If there is consciousness still somewhere in there, there is no link of communication. I suppose to a trained eye, even the colour of his skin can be meaningful, but I am not trained to interpret these messages. I wonder, though, if I would like what I saw if I could read it. Maybe the incomprehensibility of medical information is also for the good of those who are conscious enough to be upset if they knew the truth.

*

Yesterday, given the situation, we broke with family tradition and cancelled the Christmas party, rather opting for a meal cooked by my brother. Had a small dinner with my family and that of my father's sister, a simple affair of rice and soup and steamed fish and stir-fried vegetables and stuffed chicken, a dinner spent dispelling myths about New York and getting reacquainted with happenings at home. Did you know that the Singapore Flyer, that colossal observation wheel, broke down, leaving hundreds of people stranded in its observation cabins dozens of metres above ground? In Singapore, moments of high drama are touched by a feeling of absurdity.

This was one of the signs that signalled to me that I have come home. The other was a quiet, gentle awakening in my old bed this morning. And yet another was on the plane. By a stroke of luck, we had taken the Southern approach into Singapore, and from my window seat, I happened to look out at the right time and my heart seized as I recognised the familiar island shapes. And then the great 747 dipped its wing, and that well-loved skyline of towers appeared above the wing edge, shrouded in the early-morning greyness, but still seeming to be beckoning to me with so much promise and familiarity. I have known this place well; how can you say no to a place like this? This city is not New York, even if it wants very much to be like New York. But it is home, and unquestionably so, and that is enough for now.