The "maha" word

Over the past week, social media has been filled with posts about attempts to contact this person of interest. Opinions have tended to be very one-sided and why shouldn’t they be, when the authorities have deployed such heavy resources to trace the whereabouts of someone who could be as insignificant as a gnat?

I don’t normally like to add more noise to what is already a very noisy space, but in this instance, a commentary piece from the Facebook account of The Coverage Media, one paragraph caught my eye:

"In this country, opportunities seem reserved not for the 'Maha Miskin' (extremely poor) or 'Maha Genius' (exceptional talents), but for the 'Maha Entitle' (entitled elite) and 'Maha Tongkat' (those relying on the crutches of affirmative policies)."

Maha Miskin. Maha Genius. Maha Entitle. Maha Tongkat. Four “maha” categories to describe the polarisation in this country. No prizes for guessing who belongs in the latter two categories.

My disclaimer is that The Coverage Media is one of Malaysia’s fast-growing social news websites where one can find some of the most widely discussed news and issues regardless of whether they ultimately prove to be authentic or not. So don’t accept everything you read there at face value, okay? Disclaimer aside, this is the original piece. Go find the "maha" word there:

Anwar's Malaysia: Failing the Maha Genius, Rewarding the Maha Entitle - Malaysia Doesn't Deserve Patriots Like James Chai

Malaysia, under Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim, does not deserve dedicated patriots like James Chai.

As a Malaysian Chinese student who achieved 12A1s in his SPM exams, James was denied a scholarship despite his exceptional academic record.

This is a story that repeats itself every year for thousands of talented, underprivileged students from non-Bumiputera communities.

In this country, opportunities seem reserved not for the "Maha Miskin" (extremely poor) or "Maha Genius" (exceptional talents), but for the "Maha Entitle" (entitled elite) and "Maha Tongkat" (those relying on crutches of affirmative policies).

Two years ago, an Indian student bravely asked Anwar about implementing meritocracy in university admissions during a dialogue session.

Instead of a thoughtful response, she was met with a harsh rebuke that left her visibly traumatized.

Everyone in Malaysia pays taxes, yet the funds collected to build public universities make it disproportionately difficult for individuals like James to access higher education.

If Anwar redirected resources from high-profile international engagements—such as the criticized RM200 million aid pledge to Palestine amid local economic pressures—these could fund scholarships for all deserving poor and brilliant Malaysian youths.

Such investments would empower them to contribute to nation-building, rather than fueling brain drain.

Despite the system's failures, James Chai excelled abroad.

He graduated as a top law student with first-class honors from Queen Mary University of London and earned an MSc in Criminology and Criminal Justice from the University of Oxford. He also topped Malaysia's Certificate of Legal Practice exam.

Thousands of similar cases occur annually: bright minds overlooked at home, thriving overseas.

With his qualifications and expertise in policy, AI governance, and economics, James could easily command a minimum salary of £7,000 per month in the UK—equivalent to about RM37,000 at current exchange rates.

Yet, defying expectations, James returned to serve Malaysia.

He joined the Economy Ministry as a special officer to Rafizi Ramli on a two-year contract, earning no more than RM3,700 monthly—a staggering 10-fold pay cut.

In return, James was instrumental in organizing the KL20 Summit, a landmark event aimed at elevating Kuala Lumpur to a top-20 global startup hub by 2030.

The summit attracted billions in potential investments, including deals with 12 international venture capital firms and high-tech companies, projecting over RM500 billion in value for Malaysia's startup ecosystem by 2030.

Do we even deserve public servants like him?

James's humility shines through his lifestyle: he owns only an old Proton Persona 1.6 worth RM12,000, choosing poverty over personal gain for the sake of national service.

His only "mistake"? His father isn't Anwar Ibrahim.

If he were James Chai bin Anwar Ibrahim, the narrative might differ entirely.

This echoes Anwar's controversial move to sideline Rafizi Ramli as PKR deputy president, paving the way for his daughter, Nurul Izzah Anwar—a decision that raised questions about nepotism and led to both James and Rafizi resigning.

Post-resignation, James briefly assisted ARM Holdings—a UK-based semiconductor giant—in a two-month transitional role, with no shares, directorship, high position, kickbacks, or conflicts of interest.

Everything complied with rules, laws, and regulations.

Yet, the Malaysian Anti-Corruption Commission (MACC) is now treating him like an international criminal, issuing a public search notice and probing a RM1.1 billion government deal with ARM that he helped coordinate.

This is not a country for people like James Chai.

It's why Malaysia faces a brain drain of nearly 2 million talented individuals—1.86 million according to recent estimates, or 5.5% of the working-age population, double the global average.

While the government claims a shift to "brain circulation" with returnee programs, the exodus continues as top brains flee a system that fails them.

Corporate mafias remain untouchable, while innocent, highly qualified Malaysians like James are targeted.

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 1

In the days of old leading up to Chinese New Year, my maternal grandmother would turn our kitchen into a small koay workshop. We were all staying in Seang Tek Road then. My mother and her sister worked beside their mother, measuring rice flour, grating coconuts and occasionally squeezing out the santan, and cutting banana leaves into neat pieces. I was normally chased out of the kitchen. The warning was always the same: don’t open your mouth and say anything, or the koay might not turn out properly.

Some of their work took place late at night. I remember especially the steaming of the tnee koay, which would start well past my 10 o'clock bedtime. By morning, the koay would be ready, all warm, sticky and with a faint golden surface sheen.

This was long before there were supermarkets in Penang. In those days, a Nyonya household made all its festival koay at home. For several days, the kitchen became a small workshop of rice flour, coconut milk, brown sugar and banana leaves, with trays of freshly baked or steamed koay appearing one after another on the wooden table.

Some of the koay were unmistakably associated with the Chinese New Year. One of the most prominent was the huat koay, which are steamed pink rice cakes that cracked open at the top like blossoming flowers. This name carried the hopeful meaning of prosperity and every family wanted them to rise well in the steamer. If the huat koay split neatly into four petals, it was taken as a sign of good fortune for the coming year.

Another was the tnee koay, the sticky brown Chinese New Year koay made from glutinous rice flour and sugar. I remember vividly how the steaming would start before midnight. The open kitchen was warm with the rising steam. By morning, the tnee koay would be ready, all warm and sticky with a golden hue on the surface and releasing a deep caramel fragrance. 

And then there were the red tortoise-shaped ang koo, moulded from glutinous rice dough tinted a bright, auspicious red and filled with sweet mung bean paste. Pressed into carved wooden moulds before steaming, they bore the patterned shell of a tortoise which was a symbol of longevity. 

But the New Year table was never limited to just these three. My grandmother’s repertoire extended far beyond them, reflecting generations of Nyonya culinary tradition. There was koay kochnee, a coconut-rich glutinous rice koay, sometimes made richer still, set in santan; koay bengkah ubikayu, a baked tapioca koay with a golden crust; and koay talam, the familiar two-layered pandan-and-coconut custard koay.

Preparing all these koay required not just skill but adherence to a set of kitchen taboos. When making huat koay, quarrels and arguments were strictly forbidden. Sharp words, my grandmother would say, would stop the koay from opening. With tnee koay, the batter had to be stirred steadily and without interruption. Children were sent outside or quietly watched. I was always barred from the kitchen while the steaming went on. Even lifting the steamer lid had its own rules: clockwise only, never counter-clockwise, to encourage proper rising. Sweeping the kitchen, tasting the batter too early, or sudden noises were all said to disturb the delicate rhythm of the koay.

By the time Chinese New Year arrived, the kitchen shelves would be lined with trays and covered plates. Some of the koay were destined for the household altars, others for visiting relatives. The adults had the quiet satisfaction of seeing all those trays filled with perfectly formed, fragrant and colourful koay, making the long preparations worthwhile.

Today, many of these koay can still be found in Penang, though increasingly in markets and specialty stalls rather than home kitchens. The old processes of grating the coconuts and layering the batter, and the quiet discipline in the kitchen have disappeared into memory. But the smell of freshly steamed huat koay or the sight of a tray of glossy ang koo can still take me back, almost instantly, to that busy kitchen in Seang Tek Road and to the care that went into every piece.

There is more to tell about the koay for visitors, the full spread of the festive table and some of the rarer Nyonya treats now almost forgotten. That, and a few more of the curious taboos that surrounded them. I'll explore them in Part 2.

Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur

Dateline: 4 December 2025. We had one full day in Jaipur, and we began our activities at Amber Fort. It rose from the Aravalli hills in a way that required us to take a second look. Perched above Maota Lake, its walls followed the ridgelines in sweeping curves. This was once the capital of the Kachwaha Rajputs, and much of what we saw dated back to the reign of Maharaja Man Singh I in the late 16th century, with later rulers adding their own layers to the structure. So what stood before us was not the vision of a single ruler but an accumulation of several over time. The coach parked a distance away and we continued our journey by local transport, one that could negotiate tight and narrow corners easily.

We passed through the great gates into Jaleb Chowk, the first courtyard, where returning armies once displayed their victory spoils. Today tourists have replaced soldiers and cameras, swords. Beyond it was the Diwan-e-Aam or Hall of Public Audience, that stretched across a forest of columns capped with elephant-shaped brackets.  

From there we moved through Ganesh Pol, the gateway to the private quarters. The frescoes and mosaics were delicate after the stern exterior walls. Beyond was the Sheesh Mahal or Mirror Palace, with its ceilings and walls set with thousands of tiny convex mirrors. The guide repeated the familiar tale of how a single candle could set the entire chamber aglow. Whether or not the claim was tested, it was easy to imagine the effect.

What struck me as much as the ornamentation was the engineering. Water from the lake below was drawn up through a system of wheels and channels to feed fountains and gardens within the fort. 

Standing along the ramparts, looking across the valley, I could take in the horizon. It was a commanding view; the Maharaja could see danger before it arrived and if flight was necessary, a subterranean passage was there to enable escape. Yet inside those defensive walls were gardens, courtyards and mirrored chambers. This was a self-contained world that balanced vigilance with splendour.

We then descended into the city and made our way to the City Palace. If Amber Fort felt martial and elevated, the City Palace felt grounded and administrative. Built in 1727 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II when he shifted his capital from the hills to the plains, it occupied the heart of the old city.

Mubarak Mahal, once a reception hall for visiting dignitaries, is now a museum displaying royal textiles and pashminas. Among them, an ancient Indian chess set caught my attention. In the Diwan-e-Khas or Hall of Private Audience stood the Gangajalis, two enormous silver urns said to be the largest silver vessels in the world. They once carried Ganges water to England for an eccentric maharaja unwilling to drink foreign water. 

A short distance away was the Hawa Mahal. Though within walking distance, the e-scooter took a somewhat roundabout way to reach it. Its five-storey facade, built in 1799, resembled a honeycomb of 953 small latticed windows. From behind these jharokhas, royal ladies watched processions without themselves being seen. The latticework also channeled air through the structure and offered respite from the heat.

Along the main road below ran the bazaars, the true pulse of the city. Where one ended and another began was hard for us to tell. Shops spilled into one another, selling items like jewellery, enamel work, textiles and leather products. The storefronts shared that distinctive Jaipur pink. Vehicular traffic pressed forward without pause. Scooters wove through pedestrians who in turn darted in and out of the shops in search of bargain. Dynamic balance between sacredness at Amber Fort, sovereignty at City Palace and commerce here in Hawa Mahal.

Our final stop was Birla Mandir at the foot of Moti Dungri Hill. After the histories of Amber Fort and City Palace, this white marble temple which opened in 1988 by the Birla Foundation felt almost too pristine. Its walls bore carvings not only of Hindu deities but also of figures such as Socrates, Buddha, Jesus and even Martin Luther King Jr. The main sanctum, however, was devoted to Vishnu and Lakshmi in finely carved marble. For unknown reasons, guards prevented visitors from taking photographs of the temple's interior. Futile effort, actually, because one could still take a picture of the deities with a long zoom lens from the outside.

The place was undeniably clean and orderly. Yet I did not find it impressive. Maybe I was simply too tired after a whole day of exploration. An overload of senses, of history, of culture. Perhaps it was also unfair to weigh a 20th-century temple against 17th- and 18th-century monuments. Still, Birla Mandir felt curated and unnatural, almost like a carefully assembled statement rather than something shaped gradually by time and trial.

All too soon the day drew to a close and we returned to our hotel, thankful for the rest. I sank into bed, switching off the lights and the noise of the day. The next morning we would leave for Delhi. After 14 days on the road, our journey was nearing its end.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi

Previous:
Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats
Nepal-India Day 11: Varanasi deer park
Nepal-India Day 9 and 10: Bodhgaya to Varanasi  

Nepal-India Days 9 and 10: Bodhgaya
Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Nalanda  

Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Gridhakura
Nepal-India Day 7: Vaishali
Nepal-India Day 6: Kushinagar
Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti 
Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Tacoma in blossom season

The tacoma tree outside my house is in bloom again, and this year the flowering is unusually heavier than normal. Over the past two days I’ve swept up quite a pile of fallen blossoms and dried leaves from my compound and even from the stretch of road outside. There are lots more on the tree! Still, I’m not complaining. It’s all good exercise, actually!

This tree is one of the last tacomas left in the neighbourhood. When we first moved here about 25 years ago, they were everywhere. But one by one they were cut down as residents grew weary of sweeping up the constant fall of leaves and flowers. Along my street, I’m probably the only one still happily doing that yearly chore. The flowers are a delight to look at but the leaves, not so much. But what to do? You can’t have the best of everything. 🌼🍃

WAR greatest hits

I wrote this story about the band WAR a week ago and scheduled it to go out today. Then real war broke out in the Middle East last Saturday. Initial bombings by Israel on Tehran, the United States joining in with their own massive hardware, quick retaliation from Iran following swiftly after. For a moment I wondered whether to hold this story back. But then, it's just coincidence. So here it is.

I’ve had this copy of WAR Greatest Hits for years. The sleeve is slightly worn at the edges but the record still plays perfectly. It represents the moment when War stopped being anyone’s backing band and became a force on their own terms.

Long before the hits, there were a couple of Long Beach schoolboys in 1962, Howard Scott and Harold Brown, calling themselves The Creators. By the mid-1960s they’d added Lonnie Jordan, BB Dickerson and Charles Miller, and changed their name to Nightshift.

Then in 1969 came Eric Burdon looking for something rawer than the British Invasion circuit. He was brought to see Nightshift at a North Hollywood club. The result was a new name, WAR, a none too subtle name meant to confront racism, hunger and violence with music. The Burdon era gave them the hit single, Spill the Wine. The collaboration didn’t last. During a European tour in 1971, Burdon walked off stage and left. 

What followed, from 1971 to about 1976, is what this Greatest Hits record captures. The original seven members -- Jordan, Scott, Dickerson, Brown, Papa Dee Allen, Charles Miller and Lee Oskar -- didn’t need a new frontman. They all sang, played and built long grooves that could stretch past ten minutes.

One thing I can’t find on this Greatest Hits album is Spill the Wine. That’s because the Burdon-era recordings were released under different label arrangements, and by 1976 there were rights issues between MGM/ABC and United Artists. Even in music, wars over ownership leave their scars.

Listening now, what strikes me is how hard it is to categorise them: definitely funk but also some jazz phrasing, some Latin influence in the percussion. Lee Oskar’s harmonica almost functioning like a horn section of its own. Vocals often sung together, not spotlighting one personality but reinforcing a collective voice. Later years brought legal disputes, particularly over the name WAR. Eventually only Lonnie Jordan retained the right to tour under it while the other original members performed as the Lowrider Band. 

And yet, when I dropped the needle on this 1976 compilation, none of the real-world wars or the legal wars mattered. What I heard was a band at its commercial and creative peak, confident enough to let their music speak for itself. Perhaps that is the irony. In a week when war again means missiles and reprisals, this other WAR reminds me that the word can also signify rhythm, solidarity and the stubborn act of making something communal out of discord.

Side 1: All day music, Slippin' into darkness, The world is a ghetto, The Cisco kid, Gypsy man
Side 2: Me and baby brother, Southern part of Texas, Why can't we be friends, Low rider, Summer

Over in the blink of an eye

And just like that, Chinese New Year is over. All 15 days of it, gone in the twinkling of an eye.

Strange, considering the run-up lasted almost two months for me. The on-and-off spring cleaning, waking early to buy fruits for deity and ancestral worship, stocking up on fresh food for the long stretch of cooking ahead. And of course, preparing for the reunion dinner.

It’s not as though we don’t sit down regularly with my son and daughter. We do. But the Chinese New Year reunion dinner carries a different significance. A whole day is spent in preparation -- washing, chopping, simmering, tasting -- until evening comes and we finally sit down together to enjoy what we’ve made with our own hands. Usually roast chicken, garlic prawns, jiu hoo char, too tor soup. Sometimes a steamboat dinner, but not this year. The food tastes better for the effort.

Once that dinner is over, my annual pre-CNY duties begin. I gum strips of red paper carefully around each fruit, one by one, before arranging them neatly on plates for offering. Then come the gold-stamped worship papers, folded into paper ingots and lotus flowers. These will be burnt after the worship to Soo Kong, our house deity, and the Tnee Kong to welcome in the New Year. By the time everything is done, prayers said, incense offered, and suddenly it is usually close to 2am before we turn in.

The first day of Chinese New Year is vegetarian for us, from breakfast through to dinner. A tradition that has stayed, even as other habits have loosened over the years. We make our way to Bandar Tasek Mutiara to visit my mother-in-law, now the most senior member of the family since my parents and my aunt are no longer with us. Time does its quiet accounting. Generations shift almost without announcement.

Apart from that, we keep things simple. On the sixth day, when we are out visiting the Kuan Imm Teng and the Triple Wisdom Temple on the island, we drop by a long-time family friend’s home more out of habit than obligation. Otherwise, we stay home and wait for visitors, mostly relatives, the house filling and emptying in waves.

And then, before we quite realise it, Chap Goh Meh is upon us. On this day, I make my way to the Swee Cheok Tong, where my Kongsi makes its annual worship to the deities. Our principal deity is Tai Tay Yah, though Tua Pek Kong and Lo Chiah Kong are also prominent in the front hall. In the inner chamber are the Chow Moo Kong and Tay Choo Kong, along with the ancestral tablets. Once the noon worship is completed and the members have dispersed, I make my quiet way to Poh Hock Seah in Armenian Street to pay my respects to the resident Tua Pek Kong there. This is something I’ve done each year since my retirement.

So now, with the 15 days over, the mandarin oranges finished and the unused angpow packets put away, all that remain are the various unfinished Chinese New Year cookies. The red banner above the main doorway comes down, and the house returns to its ordinary rhythm. Two months of preparation. Fifteen days of observance. And it all passes as it always does.

Streets of London

For years, I’ve been listening rather blissfully to this record unaware of any of its background. Only recently did I realise that this Ralph McTell Streets of London record on my shelf is not a new album he recorded at the time of the hit, but a compilation released by his previous record label to cash in on it.

Almost everyone knows Streets of London as a timeless song going back decades. McTell wrote it in 1965 but didn’t include it on his debut album because he thought it was too depressing. When it finally appeared on Spiral Staircase in 1969, it was modestly received. 

By 1975 he had moved to Warner Bros Records and released a new studio album. The label wanted to call it Streets of London but McTell refused. He didn’t want his new work judged by the success of an old single. So the compromise title became simply Streets....

And that is where the record industry did what they often do. His former label, Transatlantic Records, quickly issued a budget compilation of his earlier material and titled it Streets of London. Same name as the hit, but it was a different album of older recordings. In the record shops, Streets of London was sold next to Streets..., thus confusing people.

Later, those same early recordings were licensed to Pickwick Records. Thin sleeve, economical packaging, explanatory notes on the back by one Albert Gayol, aimed at the listener like me who only knew the one famous song. These were the copies that ended up affordable, accessible and slightly misleading, which explains the record I own.

There’s an irony in all this. McTell insisted on using Streets... because he didn’t want to be defined by that one song. Yet the marketplace defined him anyway. The compilation sold widely. His new material risked being overshadowed. He later admitted that his refusal to use Streets of London may have been an error of judgement.

As for me, I rather like that my copy carries this small piece of industry history. It looks unassuming but it tells a story beyond the song itself. Not just about homelessness and forgotten people, which the lyric addresses, but about labels, contracts and timing. And about how, sometimes, the record on your shelf is not quite what you thought it was.

Here are the notes from Albert Gayol on Ralph McTell's album, Streets of London: 

Ralph McTell left home in London and took to the road with five pounds in his pocket, a guitar on his back and little else besides a flourishing musical talent and the yearning of a free spirit to roam the streets of Europe playing for his supper. 

The road which led him through the cafes of Paris, where McTell entertained the crowds as a busker, was eventually to take him nearly ten years on into the hallowed precincts of London's Royal Albert Hall and International prominence. 

From busking, McTell began touring the circuit of British folk clubs, often booked on the sole recommendation of the highly respected guitarist/songwriter John Renbourn, but soon becoming something of a minor legend in his own right as he took to playing the large universities and concert arenas. 

A series of highly successful albums followed establishing him, among other things, as one of the worlds finest finger style folk guitarists; he made regular appearances on television, including a film about his childhood in London that was inspired by a song of his called The Streets of London held by critics and the public as one of the best compositions by a British folk singer for years. 

Ralph was not meteoric in his rise to success, more the gradual, but sure development of a gentle, quiet man who never went looking for fame and who only put out "Streets" as a single some ten years after having written it and after some thirty other artists had recorded it across the world. 

His music heavily influenced by the jug bands of the twenties and the blues underlines a warm sensitivity and simple directness that is a true reflection of the man, and witnessed in the manner he is able to reduce the vastness of over 6,000 people crambed (sic) into the Albert Hall to the intimacy of a fireside chat. 

It's a natural warmth that shows through on this record as well. The haunting melodies of his songs, their whistful (sic) delicate wording will command your attention from beginning to end, whether he is graphically portraying an imaginary scene in Brighton in the early 1900's or gently reciting tender words of love to his wife - Nannas Song. 

Said simply, Ralph McTell's songs 'move you'.

Side 1: Streets of London, Hesitation blues, Girl on a bicycle, Clown, Michael in the garden, Blind Blake's rag 

Side 2: Nanna's song, Last train and ride, England 1914, The mermaid and the seagull, Daddy's here, Kew Gardens

Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Dateline: 3 December 2025. What did we do in Agra? The more honest question is: what does every visitor to Agra ever do? It is not that the city lacks other monuments or history. There are tombs, forts and reminders of empire scattered across its landscape. Yet for most visitors, there is really only one destination that matters. The Taj Mahal. The oft-repeated love story of Shah Jahan and his Mumtaz Mahal has eclipsed almost everything else.

On the way there, our coach rolled past the Agra Fort. Its red sandstone ramparts stretched long and unyielding in the morning light, solid and self-assured. I was aware that Shah Jahan had spent his final years imprisoned here. He had been locked up by his own son, Aurangzeb. From somewhere inside, he must have gazed across the Yamuna river towards the white marble tomb of Mumtaz. We did not stop. The schedule did not allow it. The fort slipped by our windows.

Security at the Taj Mahal was tight. Bags scanned, pockets checked. It felt almost airport-like. There was something slightly ironic about submitting to metal detectors before entering a monument built as a declaration of love, but perhaps that is simply the reality of the modern world. When a structure becomes a global symbol, protection becomes part of its story.

As we stepped through the main gateway, the Taj Mahal revealed itself gradually, framed by the great arch before opening fully into view. I had seen countless photographs over the years, yet the actual sight of it standing at the end of the long reflecting pool felt different. The dome rose with assurance. The four minarets stood at the corners.

It was magnificent. That word is often overused, but here it feels earned. If any monument deserves a place on one’s bucket list, this would be it. 

Built between 1631 and 1653, the Taj Mahal was commissioned by Shah Jahan in memory of his wife Mumtaz Mahal, who died during childbirth in 1631. It was widely regarded as the finest example of Mughal architecture: a harmonious blend of Persian symmetry, Islamic calligraphy and Indian craftsmanship. Recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983, it stands not only as a mausoleum, but as a statement of aesthetic ambition.

The sky that day, however, was a hazy pale blue. Not dramatic nor postcard-perfect. A thin veil of pollution softened the edges of the marble. I could not help imagining what it must have looked like in the 17th century, under a clear, untainted sky. That white dome would have been set against a deep blue expanse. No industrial haze. No modern residue hanging in the air.

As we approached, the details became more apparent. The pietra dura inlay work of semi-precious stones shaped into intricate floral motifs revealed a level of craftsmanship that photographs cannot fully convey. From a distance, the structure appeared simple. Up close, it was anything but.

There are familiar legends surrounding the Taj. The story that Shah Jahan ordered the artisans killed or their hands severed to prevent replication. Historians agree this is a myth, unsupported by credible evidence. Another tale speaks of a planned Black Taj across the Yamuna as Shah Jahan’s own tomb. Again, no solid archaeological proof. These stories persist perhaps because the monument itself feels larger than ordinary history. It invites embellishment.

Inside the mausoleum, the cenotaphs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan were beneath the great dome, while their actual graves were in a lower chamber. The interior was dim, the air cooler. Voices echoed softly and guards gently kept visitors moving. No photography was allowed inside. 

I tried to imagine a moonless night in Shah Jahan’s time. No electric glare. No sodium lamps staining the horizon. The Milky Way stretching clearly overhead, the constellations easily identifiable. In such darkness, the Taj would stand in silhouette, its dome interrupting a sky dense with stars. Humanity beneath an immense universe. 

Eventually, we turned away and made our way back through the gates, rejoining the present with its crowds and security checks. The Taj Mahal remained behind us. From Agra, our next destination was Jaipur, some 240 kilometres away. Another long ride of nearly five hours lay ahead. By the time we arrived, night had already settled. We checked into the Radisson City Centre Jaipur, our home for the next two nights, the image of white marble beneath a hazy sky still in our mind.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi
Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur

Previous: 
Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats
Nepal-India Day 11: Varanasi deer park
Nepal-India Day 9 and 10: Bodhgaya to Varanasi  

Nepal-India Days 9 and 10: Bodhgaya
Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Nalanda  

Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Gridhakura
Nepal-India Day 7: Vaishali
Nepal-India Day 6: Kushinagar
Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti 
Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree 

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Into the light

Before Chris de Burgh became synonymous with one particular ballad, he had already spent more than a decade recording and touring. He signed with A&M Records in 1974 but his early albums didn't trouble the UK or US charts. Far Beyond These Castle Walls and Spanish Train and Other Stories were built around strange narrative songs, such as trains that argued with the devil, or spacemen who visited at Christmas, which were hardly the sort of material competing with disco or straightforward pop. Yet they found followers. 

Through the late 1970s he kept releasing albums, slowly refining the sound while retaining that habit for telling a story within a song. By the early 1980s his work became more polished, more aligned with mainstream pop-rock. The Getaway brought him proper chart entries in the UK and the US. “Don’t Pay the Ferryman” even entered the Billboard Hot 100. 

By the time he recorded Into the Light, he was already well established, but he still lacked a truly universal hit. That changed with "The Lady in Red," a simple ballad about a husband remembering how his wife looked when they first met and seeing her anew years later. The song reached No. 1 in 47 countries and sold more than eight million copies. The momentum carried the album to No. 2 in the UK, his first studio release to enter the Top 10 there, and into the US Top 25. Not bad for a story-teller.

Side 1: Last night, Fire on the water, The ballroom of romance, The lady in red, Say goodbye to it all 
Side 2: The spirit of man, Fatal hesitation, One word (straight to the heart), For Rosanna, The leader, The vision, What about me?

Sandiwara best news for Penang

This would probably be the best-ever advertisement for Penang in a very long while. Maybe even the best ever. I’m referring to the short, 11-minute independent film Sandiwara, featuring Malaysia’s Oscar-winning Michelle Yeoh playing five different characters in a story woven along the streets and food centres of Penang.

Maybe a month or two ago, there was a brief Facebook posting saying that Michelle Yeoh had been spotted filming at the Red Garden along Leith Street in George Town, Penang. She was all dressed up in various ways. But very little noise about it. No big announcements. No press excitement. Just a sighting. At that time, I don’t think many of us knew what exactly was going on.

Then last week, I read that Sandiwara would premiere at the Berlin International Film Festival on 13 February 2026. Berlin. That was when I realised this was not some small side project.

The film was directed by Sean Baker, the Oscar-winning director of Anora. The same Sean Baker who shot Tangerine on an iPhone years ago. The same one known for telling very human, street-level stories. And here he was, quietly coming to Penang and shooting a short film on an iPhone again. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Apparently it was done in a guerilla style. Two days of shooting with a small crew. iPhone cameras used so they could blend in, which made sense. Imagine trying to move around Penang's heritage zone with an A-list global star like Michelle Yeoh. The project would have attracted half the island.

What surprised me most was that Michelle Yeoh agreed to do this. After winning her Oscar, she could choose any big Hollywood production. Big budgets. Big sets. Instead, she came home and played five characters -- a food critic (and I must admit, in that role she carried a hint of the same quiet authority she had in Crazy Rich Asians), a hawker, a waitress, a singer and even a modern-day vlogger -- all moving through the same Penang streets and food centres we know so well. An experimental short film set not in grand studios but amidst hawker stalls and heritage five-foot ways. Everything within Penang’s UNESCO World Heritage zone. These are streets we walk past every day and take for granted.

The title Sandiwara means drama or theatrical performance. So perhaps that is the idea. Five characters, five different roles. A food critic judging. A hawker cooking. A waitress serving. A singer performing. A vlogger documenting. In a place like Malaysia, identity is never just about one race. We consist of Chinese, Malay, Indian, Baba Nyonya, Eurasian and others. Both modern and traditional. Both local and global. Maybe that was what they were exploring. I’m guessing here, but it felt like this to me.

Sean Baker himself described the film as a “love letter to Penang.” But he also said that before he could deliver a love letter, he had to fall in love with Penang first. He spent about nine days here before shooting, just immersing himself in our culture. He talked about how inspiring the city was. How he could feel the love people have for the food. And that food culture became central to the film. That part made me smile because understanding Penang doesn’t start with brochures. It starts with the hawker stalls.

What struck me was that this wasn't a tourism commercial. It was not a state-produced promotional video. It was an Oscar-winning director choosing to tell a story here with an Oscar-winning Malaysian actress, and premiering it at one of the biggest film festivals in the world. We spend so much time talking about promoting Penang. Campaigns, slogans, branding exercises and then suddenly, boom! Something like this happens. And it may do more for Penang’s cultural standing than years of official marketing.

I don’t think we quite fathom what this means. How many Malaysian stories reach a global stage like Berlin? How often is Penang presented not as an exotic postcard but as a living, breathing place worthy of serious cinema?

And this was shot on an iPhone. That detail is important. Sean Baker has always said he values autonomy and creative control. He makes independent films because he doesn’t want stories dictated by agendas. So this choice fits him perfectly. After winning the highest honours in cinema, he goes back to a stripped-down method. Almost to say the story matters more than the equipment.

For Penang, this is not a small thing. Yet I have not read very much reaction from the Penang state government or the Exco in charge of tourism. Maybe I missed it. If I did, I stand corrected. But if not, perhaps we are too used to looking outward for validation that we sometimes miss it when it arrives. Because this, an 11-minute film called Sandiwara, shot quietly in our streets, starring Michelle Yeoh, directed by Sean Baker, premiering in Berlin, this feels significant. It feels like Penang being seen. And for that alone, I can only say thank you.

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