Exposure to the chilled, mask-like facial expression of Death every morning certainly puts bits of life into perspective. (I’m doing Forensics at the moment; more on that some other time)

For some reason, on this night, as I had languorously flipped through pages and pages of medical literature, a sudden pang, an indescribable urge to listen to a song I’ve not heard for years wisped through my mind. And naturally, like a work of fiction, I couldn’t find it at its most intense time of need - my pile of old CDs was left back home. It was a frantic search; putting in chunks of what I remembered was the title into the Google search tab, going over countless versions of the track, trying very hard to remember what it was like - because it had to be this one and no other.

I finally found it. Like a child in his first view of beauty, I was held - by memory, not pain, but by the vivid recollections it brought. Of those years; of back then.

The past definitely shapes the future; my feelings those years ago shaped the character of this song. And because it speaks only to me, you would probably wrestle in absolute boredom should you go through all 8 minutes of it, searching for the significance within its orchestral masterpiece. 8 minutes - the time it takes for me to steal a hurried glimpse of all those wonderful times.

The last time I heard it, I wrote about it (and what a piece! - it still gives me goosebumps).

Like history, some things never change.

Listen to it: Mononoke Hime Medley by Tokyo Kosei Orchestra
The french horn solo* (at precisely 3:17) is, like it has always been, exquisitely delicate and yet it bears the greatest weight in significance.

*Random note: I played the solo once when my Section Leader did an AWOL, and it scared the shits out of me. I’m not particularly stable when playing in front of large crowds, even within the comfortable boundaries of the band room. Pity; when I had a private masterclass with the Principal french hornist of the Singapore Symphony Orchestra many many years ago, he said I had talent. He cheekily added, with a Chinese-laced accent, that “xiao meimei no guts, scaredy-cat”. I must put that in mind should I one day decide to get a real day job.

I chanced upon this by coincidence. This was taken in 1995; the location was a little storeroom sandwiched between the Band Room and the Chinese Orchestra Room. The scene is rather dark and perhaps only those who have lived through it, as I have, can feel a tinge of nostalgia sweeping through their skin. The boy is dressed in the green Temasek JC uniform (though black-and-white, I can recognise it anywhere). The guitar he is holding is not only badly tuned, but had a few strings missing when I remembered playing with it. The shelf he is sitting on brings a hilarious tale to mind; when I was entering the room, a hand shot out from it and scared the shit out of me, only to realise later that it was my senior Sameer (one of the few who can fit in it) who had thought I was someone else. The hat (or tudung saji as we called it) was used by my mate Elfie in an unscripted Chinese drama sketch, whilst taking a break from studying late at night at the Scope (as most of us were).

My memories of it included a stale, misty air - a conveniently cool retreat from the humid environment (for the room was right below the airconditioned Arts lecture theatres), of the difficult journey (particularly when I had just finished with ablutions) by meandering precariously around the boys that were scattered around the entrance to the girls’ quarters.

I had a chance to use that same Malay Cultural Society (MCS) room in 2001 - the last year it was to exist. The following year, we were moved to a classroom, the old place locked up till whenever.

When I returned to Singapore last July, I had the opportunity to mingle with NTU Muslim Society students in an orientation camp - some of them my old school friends. In what eventually is a resurrection of history, I was thrown into the posterior compartment of a van travelling within campus, my companions a chatty bunch of TKGS-TJCian girls two years my junior. They were telling me madly about their experiences and joys of college life - of how wonderful it was and how great it had been to meet me, the senior who lived it all before them. One of the girls, for some odd reason, had two copies of the MCS newsletter in her possession at that time - one published in my graduating year, the other hers. “I was the MCS JK (committee member),” she smiled. It was years since I last saw the cover; flipping through the magazine and laughing at the inside jokes that were hidden throughout the pages.

It seemed utterly surreal: the TJCian juniors around me, my primary school friend (the boy who used to sit beside me) driving the van, hanging out with my best friend Soffiah, Rahmat chatting with me after prayers, meeting Sameer after all these years - it is indescribable. I was sitting with a group of NUS/NTU boys, playing some silly lame-ass games when one of the NTU seniors passed by me and said my name, asking me if I was indeed she. It threw me off-course, but he said he must have met me back in JC (he had already graduated from TJC then) and for some reason, he remembered who I was.

The MCS-JK girl told me later on, as I was leaving the compound for home (I was not to stay overnight with the other campers), that the MCS classroom has been split into half as it was shared with another society. There were rumours that it will eventually disappear altogether. Temasek JC was one of the few, if not only college I know that has a room set aside for Muslim students to pray. Our seniors fought for that right back in the 80s, therefore acquiring the dinghy storeroom that despite its size and lack of humanitarian facilities, was worth much more than its looks.

It had history; my life in Singapore had history. People who grew up with me, who knew me and who faced things I had to face with as well. But it must have stopped there, at the point when I signed my acceptance letter to Medical School. Sitting in the NTU hall, watching everyone pray in a group - I miss that, the sense of comraderie, that cultural mix I belonged to. And yet I know I’m not similar to them anymore, for my current obstacles and my life’s priorities are now different.

When the MCS-JK girl passed me my batch’s MCS newsletter, she gave me a grin. “It’s amazing what coincidence can bring.”

I suddenly remembered that my ancient webpage still existed. It’s not a monumental piece of art for sure, but I did get some pride out of actually having one when my peers were still doing kiddish stuff, like I don’t know, tying their shoelaces or memorising multiplication tables. I was 14 then. It’s undergone multiple renovations, of which the most recent (when was that, I wonder?) was not completed. The cover page is still up and about. The ‘about me’ page is downright embarassing (it sounds like a pathetic ad for the SDU), but I’ll just leave it as it is to remind myself to never do anything like that again.

And yes, I used to have this really super-duper-golly-gosh-far-out poet name ‘fayte’ in which it is pronounced as ‘fate’ and not ‘fatty’ as how my brother used to do it to annoy me.

Edit: After numerous tries with the password bit, I’ve finally entered the inner sanctum of my webpage manager. And like some archaeological expedition, I’ve found bits and pictures that have remained untouched since secondary school (which is really really exciting). So if you’re interested in kooky things like these, do take a look at how immature I was back then:
the old layout: complete with ‘then, now, later’ and pictures. Some of the links don’t work though; not bothered patching it up. I think it was just ‘uber cool’ the way I made my text blue and gray for Cedar and green for JC - like I somewhat appreciated the very essence of colour coordination back then.
Oh gosh i feel so old. I suddenly have this yearning to meet all my Cedarians and do a get together bitching fryup. Perhaps when I return.