Senior moments on board

I’ve been rather quiet the last few days and will likely remain so until the 11th or 12th of this month. Reason is because I’m competing in the Senior 65+ age-group category of the 23rd ASEAN+ Age-Group Chess Championships at the Berjaya Penang Hotel. This is one of the very few age-group events that give recognition to those senior members of the chess board. People tend to think of age-group competitions as limited to those age groups below 20 years old, but I had always contended that age-group events can be for adult chess players too. 

ASEAN Chess Confederation's 25th anniversary celebrations
at the 23rd Age-Group chess championships. There wasn't any
competition in 2001 and 2002, that is, the Covid-19 years

Actually, I didn’t plan to be playing in this ASEAN+ tournament at all. My role was to take charge of the media releases, but several weeks ago, I was being urged by the Penang Chess Association committee members to play since the response for that age-group category was rather poor. I did a lot of soul-searching. Should I play or not? Five years ago, I would unhesitatingly have said yes to it. But five years is a pretty long time, and I’ve found that my chess abilities have taken a hit as I grew older. 

Nevertheless, the urge to play remained strong despite my reluctance. However, the enticing bit was that for the PCA committee members, the tournament was free. No need to fork out the money in order to play. And it’s not exactly cheap. Plus, I get to stay at the tournament hotel for the event’s full duration. That sealed the deal, actually. Not having to travel back and forth from Bukit Mertajam meant less stress on my constitution. And that’s how I ended up as a participant in the Seniors 65+ section, making up a field of 12 players. Meantime, the Seniors 50+ section had attracted 20 players. A very decent number!

However, before the championships started, the organisers decided to combine both Seniors age-groups and came up with a new list of 30 participants. So here at this event, I was wearing two hats. The first was as an official in charge of the media, and the second as a participant. That being so, it forced me to surrender my mobile phone outside the tournament hall as regulations do not permit players to carry mobile phones or even wear wristwatches while playing. The regulations are quite strict to prevent participants from cheating. Even exiting the tournament hall to go to the washrooms or leaving the hall after the games are over would require the players to be body-scanned electronically.

So how have I been faring in the first three days of playing? Well, the first round went disastrously wrong as I lost. The second and third games were drawn. In the fourth round, I lost a second time needlessly by walking into a one-move checkmate. I was having the upper hand in the game, actually—until I tried too hard to capture a pawn, and that was my undoing. Fifth game, drawn again. So from five games, I’ve collected only 1½ points. Quite miserable, this contribution of rating points to other people. And there are four more rounds to go. How will I fare against my future opponents? Stay tuned to my further misadventures.

The great assembly

When I was recently writing about the Mahavana Forest in Nepal, it struck me how underrated the place is. Most people overlook it, probably because there’s no major landmark there. Just a quiet expanse of forest without even the hint of ruined structures. Even the Buddhist pilgrimage tours from Malaysia and Singapore tend to skip it entirely. Yet, I would argue that Mahavana deserves to be an essential stop for anyone who wants to better understand the activities of the Buddha.

Some time ago, I was reminded that this year's 10th of June corresponded to the full moon day of the lunar month, known as Navon in the Burmese calendar. This full moon day in June is an important date in the Buddhist calendar, especially in Burma where it’s marked as Mahasamaya Day, meaning The Great Assembly day. It becomes a time to reflect on a remarkable event from the Buddha’s time: an event that combined compassion, wisdom and cosmic significance.

It all began with a very earthly quarrel. In the fourth year after his enlightenment, the Buddha learned of a serious conflict brewing between two neighbouring states: the Sakyans of Kapilavatthu (his own people) and the Koliyans across the Rohini river. A terrible drought had struck the region and the two sides were fighting over water for their crops. The tension was so severe that war seemed inevitable.

The Buddha intervened. He travelled to the border where the two armies were facing off. With gentle words and calm reasoning, he reminded them that water was not worth shedding blood over. Through his wisdom, the conflict was diffused. The two sides saw the error of their ways and laid down their weapons.

To express their gratitude, the rulers of both states each ordained 250 princes, 500 in total, into the Sangha. But these newly ordained monks, though sincere, still struggled with worldly attachments. Their wives, left behind in the royal palaces, tried to win them back with music, perfume and sweet food. As the young monks’ minds wavered, the Buddha led them away into the serenity of the Himalayan forests, to a place called Kundala Lake. There, under the cool shade of trees and the silence of nature, he taught them the Story of the Kundala Bird, using 300 verses to illustrate the path of letting go. By the end, the monks reached the first stage of enlightenment, Sotapatti. 

The Buddha then brought them to Mahavana, the Great Forest near Kapilavatthu. Seated in a cave on the night of the full moon of Nayon, he gave them guidance in meditation and one by one, they attained full enlightenment or Arahantship.

And then something extraordinary happened.

Word of the great assembly of enlightened monks spread. Not only humans, but devas, yakkhas, nagas, Brahmas, beings from the heavenly realms and all across the cosmos, began arriving. They came in vast numbers, shining with celestial light, drawn to the power of the Dhamma. The Buddha turned to the monks and said, “The deva hosts have approached. Detect them, monks.”

The monks, deep in their meditation, opened their inner vision. Some saw a hundred celestial beings. Some saw a thousand. Some saw uncountable numbers. The entire forest, it seemed, was glowing.

Seven thousand yakkhas came from Kapilavatthu. Six thousand more from the Himalayas. Three thousand from Mount Sata. Another 500 from Vessamitta. And Kumbhira, the great yakkha of Mount Vepulla, brought an entourage of over 100,000.

Then came the Four Great Kings: Dhatarattha from the East, lord of the gandhabbas (celestial musicians); Virulha from the South, ruler of the kumbandas; Virupakkha from the West, king of the nagas (serpents); and Kuvera from the North, sovereign of the yakkhas. They stood, radiant, at the four corners of the forest. Their entourages followed: hosts of devas, raucous and reverent, bearing names like Pañcasikha, Matali, Timbaru and Suriyavacchasa. The naga kings from Lake Nabhasa, Vesali and the Yamuna river came, as did the mighty Garudas, ancient bird-beings who, for once, made peace with the nagas.

The sky shimmered with the arrival of devas from the sun and moon, from the constellations, from the four elements - water, fire, earth and air. The gods of the Tavatimsa heaven came, led by Sakka, the deva-king. Even the high Brahmas arrived: Sanankumara, Subrahma, Harita, and Great Brahma himself — resplendent, serene and wise. Altogether, 60 great groups of celestial beings came from across the heavens. Each arrived quietly and reverently to hear the Buddha speak.

But not all were pleased. From the shadows came Mara, the Lord of Delusion. Seeing so many gathered in peace and joy, his dark heart burned with envy. With a thunderclap, he summoned his army. “Surround them! Distract them! Trap them in passion and fear!”

But the monks were unmoved. They remained calm, clear and beyond Mara’s reach. The Buddha once again said, “Mara’s army has approached. Detect them, monks.” And once again, they did. Mara saw he had no power here, and thus he fled.

In the stillness that followed, the Buddha delivered the Mahasamaya Sutta, a discourse so powerful and universal that countless celestial beings attained various stages of enlightenment. An unimaginable number reached Arahatship. Others reached the first, second or third stages of liberation. It was a moment of cosmic harmony. A great meeting of awakened minds and a turning point in the spiritual history of the world.

And that is why Mahasamaya Day is honoured. It reminds us of the Buddha’s role as peacemaker, teacher and guide among humansc and across all realms of existence. It tells us that peace is possible, even in the face of conflict. That wisdom shines brighter than power. And that the Dhamma speaks to all who are ready to listen, from kings and queens to yakkhas and nagas, from monks in the forest to devas in the sky. Above all, it teaches that true peace begins with the taming of our own hearts.

New electricity tariff looms

Looks like we’re heading towards changes in our electricity bills starting today. I’ve been following this for some weeks now, and from July onwards, electricity tariffs in Peninsular Malaysia will be adjusted monthly instead of every six months. That’s the big shift announced by the Energy Commission (Suruhanjaya Tenaga).

The idea is to make our bills reflect fuel and generation costs more accurately and in real time. The base tariff, which stays fixed for a few years, has now been set at 45.4 sen per kilowatt-hour (kWh), up from 39.95 sen. This is part of what's called Regulatory Period 4 (RP4), which runs until the end of 2027.

On top of that, there’ll be monthly adjustments to the final tariff depending on fuel prices. If fuel costs go up, the tariff can also go up, but by no more than three sen per kWh each month. Anything beyond that will need Cabinet approval. So it’s not entirely free-floating, but still a lot more responsive than before.

Also, our electricity bills are going to look a bit different. The current five-tiered domestic tariff structure is being replaced with a more itemised one. Usage will now be broken down into energy, capacity, network and retail charges. It’s meant to be more transparent, though I suspect most people won't be bothered with the details unless something looks unusually high.

There’s a small bonus for those who don’t use much electricity. Households using 1,000 kWh or less a month will qualify for a monthly rebate under the Energy Efficiency Incentive (EEI) which is reflected on the bill. And for small businesses like shops or offices using below 200 kWh a month, there's a similar rebate too. It’s to encourage everyone to be a little more energy-conscious.

The Time-of-Use (TOU) scheme is also being expanded. Entire weekends now count as off-peak hours, plus a long window from 10pm to 2pm on weekdays. If we can shift our high-usage appliances or machines to those periods, we might save a bit more.

While domestic users may not feel the pinch straight away, businesses might. Under the new structure, users are now grouped by voltage levels (low, medium, and high) with heavier users paying more across the board. Manufacturers and service providers who rely heavily on machinery or air-conditioning may face tighter margins due to both the base rate hike and monthly volatility.

This is where companies may want to rethink their electricity use. For some, installing solar panels might be viable but that’s not always an option, especially for those renting space or operating in multi-tenant buildings. Still, there are other energy-saving solutions out there.

The good news is that exploring these alternatives doesn’t just help cut electricity bills. It also supports ESG (Environmental, Social and Governance) commitments. More companies are being asked to show progress on sustainability. Improving energy efficiency is one of the simplest, most measurable things that can be done. Whether reporting to the board, regulators or just doing the right thing,  it all counts.

Anyway, electricity bills are going to look a bit different soon. It might take some adjusting. But for those who can adapt and take energy seriously, it could turn out to be a real opportunity in disguise.

Where art meets chess

On behalf of the Penang Chess Association, I wish to express our heartfelt thanks to Ernest Zacharevic for allowing us to use his iconic mural, Children on a Bicycle, as the central image for this year’s 23rd ASEAN+ Age-Group Chess Championships that begins on Wednesday. It’s hard to imagine a more fitting representation. After all, this tournament is for the young (and the young at heart). The mural, like the Championships itself, celebrates youth, movement, imagination and the simple joy of discovery. In many ways, it reflects what these players bring to the board: boldness, curiosity and a spirit that’s always on the move. We’re honoured to have Ernest’s art grace our event.

A squall in the dark

I saw this story on The Star’s online portal last night, about a violent squall that had hit Penang early yesterday morning, bringing sudden bursts of strong wind with heavy rain. A squall’s brief but intense. According to the paper, weather apps with satellite imagery had tracked the storm as it blew in from the Straits of Malacca, hitting Balik Pulau on the island’s western side around 4am before spreading across the island and then onto the mainland. Winds topped 50km/h.

What made me take notice was that I’d had trouble sleeping yesterday morning, even though I was very tired after returning from Kuala Lumpur. I woke around 2.45am, tossed and turned, and then had to deal with a pesky mosquito that somehow found its way into the bedroom.

Then at 4.25am, I heard the wind pick up. No lightning, just faint thunder and a slow build-up of wind that suddenly turned strong. I usually leave the window slightly ajar for fresh air, but all at once the wind forced its way through the gap and flung it wide open. I rushed to shut it, but the wind pushed back. Had to shut it again and this time made sure it was properly fastened.

And then came the rain. It started off gently but turned into a proper downpour in seconds. I was just settling in again when, at 4.40am, my phone—which was charging—suddenly lit up and then went dead. The whole room plunged into darkness. I couldn’t even make out the shapes of the furniture. Complete power failure.

I crept to the window and, yes, the entire street was blacked out except for one house farther away, which I knew had a backup power supply. Oh shit, I muttered, when’s the power coming back? But I didn’t have to wait long. Right at 5am, everything came back on.

So I crawled back into bed again and this time, finally managed to get some sleep until I woke at seven to the sound of dying raindrops.

20th Malaysia chess festival is on

The 20th Malaysia Chess Festival is confirmed for 12-21 September 2025. Due to some technical issues, the venue for all events this year will be the KL Gateway Mall in Jalan Kerinchi, Kampung Kerinchi, 59200 Kuala Lumpur. To reach there, take the LRT Kelana Jaya Line and stop at Universiti station (KJ19). The schedule for all the events is shown below.

Nepal 2025, Day Five

By now, I had come to expect that a stupa doesn’t always have to be made of concrete or brick, just as a Sīma hall doesn’t necessarily need to be an enclosed building...it can simply be a designated open space beneath the sky. During our Lumbini trip, we saw several examples of these stupas that looked more like grassy mounds, unshaped and unassuming, yet sacred. The stupa at Ramagrama was one such place.

When we arrived at the grounds in Ramagrama, the first thing we noticed was its sheer simplicity. Just a massive grassy mound rising from the earth, measuring 10 metres high and 23.5 metres in diameter, with a great old tree growing beside it, its roots winding around the base. There were no ornate structures, no grand gates or golden spires. Only a wooden boardwalk that circled the stupa, inviting pilgrims to walk in mindfulness.

We were drawn to a shaded spot beneath the tree and settled there for a short session of meditation and contemplation. The sun was unforgiving and the wooden walkway, baking under the heat, proved too much for bare feet. I chose instead to walk barefoot on the soft grass beside the path and had wisely forewarned my friends from the Nandaka Vihara to do the same. Bhante Dhammasubho, our Chief Abbot, along with the rest of our group, noted my advice as we circumambulated the stupa three times, knowing that this wasn’t just any stupa.

Ramagrama holds a special place in Buddhist history. After the Buddha’s Mahāparinibbāna, his cremated remains were divided among eight kingdoms. The Koliyas of Ramagrama received one portion, and they enshrined the relics in this stupa here. What makes this site so unique is that, unlike the other seven original stupas, which were later opened by Emperor Asoka for relic redistribution across his vast empire, Ramagrama’s stupa was left untouched. Legend has it that when Asoka arrived, intent on opening the mound, he was stopped by a Nāga, a serpent guardian of the relics. And so, this is believed to be the only original stupa that still contains the Buddha’s mortal remains, unbroken and undisturbed.

The site itself was rediscovered in 1899. Excavations carried out over the years, particularly by the Nepal Department of Archaeology, revealed layers of construction dating back to the Mauryan, Sunga, Kushana and Gupta periods. Pottery shards, ancient greyware and monastic remains give us glimpses of a long history of continuous devotion.

Interestingly, both Faxian and Xuanzang, the Chinese pilgrims who journeyed through this region centuries ago, recorded Ramagrama in their travelogues. Xuanzang in particular noted the Nāga legend and described seeing a stupa, a pillar and a temple, all of which were once located on an island formed by the meandering Jharahi River.

Although Ramagrama has been on UNESCO’s tentative list of World Heritage Sites since 1996, nothing much has been done to advance its eventual listing. Hopefully, more can be done to enhance Ramagrama's visibility. This is not just as an archaeological site, but a place of deep spiritual heritage. Ramagrama reminds us that sacredness doesn’t always need a grand structure or elaborate ceremony. Sometimes, a simple mound of earth that's been left untouched for over two millennia can speak louder than any artificial monument.

The visit to Ramagrama ended our stay in Lumbini. In the afternoon, we flew back to Kathmandu and along the way, as the flight approached Tribhuvan International Airport, we spotted just above the vast blanket of clouds the unmistakable tip of Mount Everest. Observing Everest from this distance had a humbling effect. There it was, piercing the clouds in silent majesty, reminding us how small we are in the grand scale of nature. To see the world’s highest peak was to be reminded that there are still things far greater than ourselves. It felt like a fitting end to a journey of spiritual reflection.

AGGCC awaits next week

 

With the 23rd ASEAN+ age group chess championships starting in a week's time, the Penang Chess Association has released this message from the Prime Minister, Anwar Ibrahim. It's confirmed that three of his grandchildren, will be competing in the age-group events. Last year, two of them had played in the Eastern Asia youth chess championships but this time, all three grandsons will be playing in the Under-10, Under-12 and Under-14 sections. 

The event will take place in the Berjaya Penang Hotel in Burmah Road from 2nd to 10th July. The standard chess competition shall be from the 2nd to the 8th, the rapid chess event on the 9th and followed by the blitz chess on the 10th.

Excursions, floods and memories

Ah, the kids I know today. They really have no idea how good their lives are. Their parents try their utmost to give them the best: the things they themselves never had growing up. And I don't mean just toys or gadgets. I mean experiences, opportunities, little luxuries. If the parents once missed out, they’re determined to make sure their children don’t. My wife and I were no different. We also wanted to provide as much as we could for our son and daughter. Whatever they wished for, within reasonable limits, we tried our best to fulfil.

Take holidays and excursions, for example. These days, it’s almost a given that modern parents will take their toddlers, two or three years old, on overseas holidays. Some of them have been on planes more times by the age of five than I had been before turning thirty! Ask any of them, “Been to Taiwan?” and they’ll rattle off place names like it is nothing. In my time, there was no such thing. An overseas holiday? That was practically in my dreams. Even local holidays were rare, especially when your family didn’t own a car. Flying was out of the question. Driving, likewise. The most we could hope for was a train journey.

And it was indeed by train that I remember going on my very first holiday. It must have been the late 1950s before I started kindergarten. I couldn’t have been older than six. My parents had decided to take me to Taiping, and we travelled from the old Prai railway station. In those days, there was no Penang Bridge, so we first had to take the trishaw to the ferry terminal and then the railway ferry across to the mainland. I still recall the metallic groan and the rocking of the ferry as it docked. From there, we boarded the night mail train. I must’ve slept most of the way, lulled by the rhythmic clack-clack of the wheels on the track because the next thing I knew, I was being gently woken up at Taiping station. Ten o'clock, maybe?

My father led the way through the quiet streets to a boarding house somewhere in town. I remember climbing up to the first floor and entering a small, modest room where we stayed the night. That trip, short as it was, became etched in my memory, because of its rarity. That was my first and only proper family holiday in the 1950s. 

I do recall another brief trip, this time with my mother and an aunt. It was an overnight visit to Cameron Highlands. We travelled by bus, just an ordinary, no-frills vehicle with thinly cushioned seats and rigid, non-reclining backrests. In those days, the bus had to travel south along the old highway and at Tapah, turn northwards through a winding road to Ringlet before reaching Tanah Rata. I think we arrived at Tanah Rata around four or five in the morning, the journey took so long. It was well before sunrise and I was well covered for the bracing cold pre-dawn air. The only place we visited was a sort of morning market. Cameron Highlands was, and still is, known for its freshest produce, and the women stocked up on vegetables and hardy flowers that I remember lasted impressively long. And that was it. After their little shopping spree, it was time to board the bus back to Penang. There wasn’t even a chance to wander around or take in the cool mountain air properly.

After these trips, once I began kindergarten in 1960, the idea of holidays seemed to disappear. There were school and play to think about, but to be more honest about the state of affairs in the family, money was tight.

Still, school life wasn’t without its small joys. During primary school and continuing into my early secondary school years up until Form Three, there were the year-end school excursions. Do schools even do this anymore? I rather doubt it. But back then, these excursions were the highlight of the year. Every kid looked forward to them. We’d pile into a chartered bus and set off on a grand tour around Penang island, stopping at places like Telok Bahang, Sungei Pinang and Balek Pulau. I think Ayer Itam was also part of the route, but my memory’s a bit fuzzy on that. It wasn’t the destination so much as the sense of going somewhere, of being away from school, of laughing with friends while there'd always someone at the back of the bus who is the joker of the lot.

But by the time I reached Form Four, those excursions stopped. Maybe the school had changed its policies. Or perhaps we’d just outgrown them. From then on, if we wanted to travel, it had to be on our own initiative.

And I did, eventually. After sitting for the MCE examination, the Malaysian Certificate of Education, which had replaced the old Senior Cambridge, I took a trip to Kuala Lumpur with my cousin Swee Kheng. It was my first real adventure without my parents, and I was buzzing with excitement. We took the train again, naturally. KL felt like another world then. Big, busy, noisy....and wet from the monsoon rain. We stayed with his brother who had a rented room at a high-rise flat, name escapes me now, which was a landmark building in the heart of town. I still remember the dark corridors, the echoing stairwells, the view from the window looking down onto a city that never seemed to sleep.

But that excitement quickly gave way to something else. When we awoke the next morning, the world had changed. The streets below were submerged. Water had swallowed the roads and crept into shoplots. We were stranded, marooned in a city that had come to a standstill.

This was the great Kuala Lumpur flood of 1971. The Klang, Batu and Gombak rivers had burst their banks. More than 180,000 people were affected. We watched from above as cars stalled and people waded waist-deep through the streets. There was little we could do except wait. Eventually, when the waters receded enough, we made our way to Section 8 in Petaling Jaya to visit my godparents. I remember the relief of getting out of the flood zone. We stayed there for a day or two and then it was time to return home.

That trip, though unintended in its drama, taught me a lot. About resilience. About finding your way in the world. About how travel, even the most modest kind, can leave lasting impressions. These weren’t trips with photo albums or souvenirs. But they live on in the memory.

And so I look at the children of today and think: yes, they may have more. But perhaps they miss something too. The thrill of the ordinary. The excitement of small journeys. The magic of train rides, ferry crossings and cheap boarding houses with dark, damp staircases. The joy of simply going somewhere, anywhere, and calling it an adventure.

Nepal 2025, Day Four (IV: Kudan)

Our final stop for the day was Kudan, located some six kilometres south of Kapilvastu. It was already late in the afternoon, and the site was close to closing. But the security guard, upon seeing that we were accompanied by a monk, none other than our Nandaka Vihara’s Chief Abbot, Bhante Dhammasubho, graciously waved us in.

As we entered, the first thing that caught our attention was a grassy mound off to the left. It was a stupa dedicated to Rahula, the Buddha’s only son from his early life as Prince Siddhartha. It was here, at this very place in Kudan, known in ancient times as Nigrodharama, that Rahula was ordained as a novice monk. He was only eight years old at the time. According to the texts, Rahula had asked his father for his inheritance and instead of wealth or title, the Buddha offered him something far greater: the Dhamma. Rahula was then ordained by the Buddha’s chief disciple, Sariputta. Today, a small Hindu shrine stands atop that stupa. A curiosity indeed, this shrine, a little out of place in the whole scheme of things.

We wandered further in and rounded another stupa, this one constructed of ancient bricks, its base clearly visible despite centuries of weathering. This stupa marks another significant moment, the first meeting between the Buddha and his father, King Suddhodana, after the Great Renunciation. The king, who had grieved for years over his son’s sudden departure, now saw him returned not as the heir to a kingdom but as the Enlightened One. It was here that the Buddha began sharing his teachings with the royal household and the Sakyans.

Perhaps it was the twilight but I felt a certain stillness about Kudan. The ruins are spread over a peaceful patch of land. There was only a little crowd and thus, little distractions. The quietness felt different, as if it remembered the footsteps of monks long past.

Archaeologically, excavations here have uncovered remnants from several historical periods. This was once a thriving monastic centre. The foundations of stupas, an old well, the outlines of a large pond...they all suggest that Kudan played a vital role in the early spread of the Buddha’s teachings. Some accounts even suggest that this area was linked to the establishment of the Bhikkhuni Sangha, the order of nuns under Mahāpajāpati Gotamī, the Buddha’s stepmother and foster mother.

As we left the grounds, sunlight had almost disappeared. The remaining, lingering light turned golden, catching the contours of the ruins in soft relief. I paused for a moment, thinking about Rahula and how this unassuming little place witnessed such deeply personal and spiritual moments in the Buddha’s life. Kudan is understated but it speaks of family, renunciation, reconciliation and the first seeds of the Sangha and that, to me, makes it every bit as sacred as the more well-trodden pilgrimage sites.

Leaving Kudan, we retreated to the Buddha Maya Garden Hotel in Lumbini, everyone deep in our own thoughts. What a day this has been, visiting the Lumbini Gardens, the mahavana forest, Kapilvastu and Kudan. On Day Five of our travels, we shall end our pilgrimage to Lumbini with a visit to the Ramagrama stupa.

Tea, temples and tunnels

We took a short overnight sojourn to Cameron Highlands recently, along with some friends and a group of foreign monks from Sri Lanka and Myanmar. On the way, we made a stop in Ipoh to visit a few tourist spots. It turned out to be a rather satisfying detour as we managed to fit in both the mirror lakes and four of the well-known cave temples.

Up in Cameron Highlands, we were treated to spectacular views at the BOH tea plantation, and we spent the night at a well-furnished—and more importantly, clean—three-bedroom apartment at the Palas Horizon Residences. There were seven of us in one unit, while the five monks had the other to themselves. It worked out fine.

I hadn’t been to the tea plantation in decades, and it’s changed quite a bit. Facilities have improved tremendously. A proper tarred road now leads directly to the BOH tea centre, which houses one of their processing factories, a popular café and an incredible viewing platform. The landscape of rolling hills blanketed with neat rows of tea bushes stretched away from us in every direction. You could drive straight up to the tea centre, or stop near a Tamil school and take the long flight of steps up instead, which we did and rather enjoyed. The road remains narrow, with cars squeezing past each other in both directions, but that only adds to the charm of the place. We went midweek and I can’t imagine what the traffic’s like on weekends or during the school holidays.

Back in Ipoh, we began with the newer of the two mirror lakes, Tasek Chermin 2, where we took a short boat ride through a 120-metre tunnel. On the other side was a hidden lake, completely enclosed by limestone cliffs. The water was so still it produced a perfect mirror effect of the foliage. The temperature dropped the moment we entered, and as the electric-powered boat glided silently across the lake, we could hear nothing but birds chirping and insects screeching. It felt like a secret place.

The older Tasek Chermin 1, just a short distance away, hasn’t changed much, except that there’s now an entrance fee to go through the 90-metre tunnel. At least they’ve installed lighting. In the past, visitors used to have to stumble through the dark, and there were puddles everywhere, even on dry days.

The Perak Cave temple was impressive. Decades since I last entered the premises. The main hall opens up into a vast cavern with a large seated Buddha at the centre. With everyone wandering off in all directions, I alone made the climb up the steep staircase at the back. The steps seemed more demanding than I remembered. I never made it to the top as Saw See called to say that our group was waiting for me. The descent was just as challenging. At one point, I faltered but luckily gripped the handrail tightly. Next came the Sam Poh Tong. We stuck together this time and made our way into the inner cave, taking in its cool stillness and the tortoise pond just outside. At the Ling Sen Tong and Nam Thean Tong which were both next to each other at the foot of the same limestone outcrop, we lingered outside while the monks wandered inside. Ling Sen Tong is garish, with a riot of statues and colourful figurines depicting Chinese folklore clustered around courtyards and artificial rock formations. Nam Thean Tong, by contrast, was quieter and more subdued.

The Perak Cave was the first temple we visited. It is located off Jalan Kuala Kangsar, about six kilometres north of the Ipoh city centre. Nestled within a limestone hill, the temple is set against a dramatic karst landscape.

The foreign monks from Sri Lanka and Myanmar at the Sam Poh Tong cave temple

A landscaped garden at the Sam Poh Tong temple

The Ling Sen Tong featured gigantic statues like this one of Lao Tze, founder of Taoism 

There are also gigantic statues at the Nam Thean Tong

The monks, all with safety hard hats, about to enter the water tunnel at Tasek Chermin 2

It was a 90-metre walk to see the lake at Tasek Chermin 1

Fabulous limestone hills outside the two mirror lakes

Halfway up the long flight of steps to the viewing platform of the BOH tea centre

Such greenery before our eyes from the BOH tea centre's viewing platform

We ordered too much food from this restaurant in Tanah Rata. I think the happiest person here was this person, fourth from right, who was the restaurant's proprietor or supervisor

Our final stop was at this Hobbitoon Village on the way down from Cameron Highlands

Four-way street

Fifty-four years ago, Four Way Street was released. It was Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s first live album, and the first CSNY record I ever bought back in the early 1970s when double LPs were still in vogue. I remember flipping through the racks at Hinson's Records in Penang Road and picking it up almost on instinct. I’d heard the band in my friend's home and Déjà Vu, their second studio album, was already legendary. This one felt different. It looked like a statement. Live, raw and sprawlingly indulgent. No greatest hits on display, just four musicians doing what they did best on stage.

What I didn’t expect was how personal it would feel. The acoustic sides were stripped down and exposed. Each of them took turns with songs that reflected who they were. Stills showed off his bluesy chops, Nash delivered melodies with heart-on-sleeve clarity and Neil Young leant into stark and sometimes unsettling ballads. Crosby, who died last year, brought a drifting, dreamlike presence. The Lee Shore, in particular, still gave me pause. 

It surprised me, too, to find Suite: Judy Blue Eyes reduced to just its final 30 seconds. I’d expected the full performance. After all, it was one of their signature songs. But maybe the album was already running long, and the band chose instead to give space to newer material and varied solo showcases. In hindsight, it makes sense that Four Way Street wasn’t about replaying studio hits but was about letting each voice stretch out in ways that couldn’t always happen when they recorded as a unit.

The first half of the album was a series of solo and duo acoustic sets: intimate and conversational. There was no attempt to hide the spontaneity. Songs were introduced, interrupted and commented on, with banter that feels loose and unfiltered. The harmonies, when they appear, are like old friends suddenly arriving unexpectedly but at exactly the right moment. Made me feel that I was in a room with them.

Then comes the shift. Side Three onward, the electric sets kicked in and everything swelled. Volume, tempo, ambition. Stills and Young trade long guitar passages. The sound became more urgent, the music more defiant. The songs stretched out and took their time. There was fire in Southern Man and tension in Ohio, and even when the band didn’t sound unified, the intensity never wavered. This wasn’t a group offering a tidy concert experience; they were showing where they stood musically and politically in a country still rattled by Vietnam, Kent State and fractured ideals.

Four Way Street worked not because it was seamless, but because it so clearly was a product of its time. The flaws were part of its charm. It captured four distinct individuals who happened, briefly, to collide and harmonise in ways that still mattered. And maybe that is why the record holds up today. It didn’t try to be definitive. It just let the moment breathe.

Looking back, I’m still glad I picked it up in the record store when I did. I didn’t know much then, but I knew it sounded real.

Three music icons...gone

Three voices, three visions, three music icons of my generation, all gone in the same month. Sylvester Stone, Brian Wilson, Lou Christie. On paper, they couldn’t have been more different. A psychedelic soul guru from the San Francisco Bay Area, a fragile pop savant from suburban California and a falsetto firecracker from a small town in Pennsylvania. But each, in their own way, twisted the limits of what popular music could sound like and what it could say. And they all left behind echoes louder than their lifetimes.

I first got to know of Sly Stone through the Woodstock movie. I didn’t know what to expect, but the moment he and his band appeared onscreen, I was mesmerised by the energy and the rhythm. He lit up the stage. That performance of I Want to Take You Higher still crackles with life. Sly and the Family Stone were doing something radical. Black and white musicians, men and women, playing together like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was funk and it was soul. Didn’t have to understand the context. I just felt it.

Then there was Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. He sketched symphonies in his head. He created the soundtrack to summer. Pet Sounds, God Only Knows, Good Vibrations. Pop turned inside out. Pop built on emotion. And when it all got too much, he crumbled. For years, he disappeared into himself. But somehow, he returned. Older, more fragile but still chasing the perfect chord. He never quite shook off the darkness but he learned to work with it. In doing so, he shaped some of the most radiant pop music we’ve ever known.

Lou Christie was not quite a teen idol. That falsetto voice, sharp and urgent, sounded like heartbreak one moment, high drama the next. Lightnin’ Strikes, I'm Gonna Make You Mine, Two Faces Have I, Rhapsody in the Rain were songs of lust, guilt, thunder and longing, all wrapped within three minutes of music. He wasn’t fashionable but he outlasted the fashion. He sang what he felt, and he kept singing, long after the screaming stopped.

All three are gone now. Brian Wilson, just shy of 83, finally freed from the noise in his head. Lou Christie, 82, taking his falsetto somewhere higher. And Sly Stone, the youngest of the three, still 82, but always the coolest in the room. Their styles were nothing alike, but their commitment was the same. They believed in the power of pop, not just to entertain but to make you feel something real.

They didn’t just leave behind records. They left a space for others to fill with their own voices.

Nepal 2025, Day Four (III: Kapilvastu)

Should Kapilvastu (or Kapilavatthu in Pāli) even be considered part of a Buddhist pilgrimage itinerary? It’s a fair question. This wasn’t where the Buddha attained enlightenment, nor where he delivered his first sermon. But this was where it all began. The early life of Prince Siddhartha, cocooned within the walls of a royal palace built by his father, King Suddhodana, ruler of the ancient Shakya kingdom. The capital of the Shakyas was Kapilvastu, and Suddhodana’s sole ambition was to groom his son to succeed him. For 29 years, the king managed to ensure that Siddhartha lived a cocooned life untouched by suffering and pain.

At the time of Siddhartha’s birth, sages had foretold a dual destiny: the child would either become a great monarch or a fully enlightened Buddha. Suddhodana, naturally, desired the former. He carefully shielded the young prince from life’s harsh realities by surrounding him with pleasure and luxury, forbidding any exposure to old age, illness, death or renunciation. The royal palace was less a home than a golden cage, meant to keep the boy’s thoughts firmly within the world.

But fate had other ideas. Siddhartha eventually saw what his father had tried so hard to hide: the Four Sights. In one fateful day, he came across an old man, a sick person, a corpse and an ascetic. From that moment, his course was set. He made the Great Renunciation, leaving behind palace life and family in search of truth. It was a deeply sorrowful moment for King Suddhodana. Yet years later, after Siddhartha attained enlightenment and became the Buddha, he returned to Kapilvastu not as a son or prince, but as a teacher. Suddhodana came to accept his son’s path. It is said that he listened to the Buddha’s teachings, and eventually, the king himself attained Arahantship. So Kapilvastu is not merely a historical site but also part of the spiritual journey.

And so there we were, standing on what remains of King Suddhodana’s palace on a late afternoon where shadows were already thrown long on the ground. Not much is seen today beyond the foundation stones, but even these are enough to give a sense of its scale. From the western entrance, now the designated way into the ruins, to the eastern gate, I’d estimate the stretch to be some 400 metres across. I’ve read elsewhere that the northern and southern ends span about 500 metres. Therefore, roughly 50 acres in all. A sizeable complex. Signboards around the site helped us picture what once stood here: fortified walls, gates, courtyards, residential quarters, even administrative buildings and gardens.

A local lad, perhaps 16 years old, eagerly offered to guide us around. With youthful energy and a certain pride in his step, he led us through the ruins, pointing out where the royal baths once stood, the living quarters of the Shakya nobility, and even the old stables where Siddhartha’s horse, Kanthaka, was kept. The walk was long and meandering, but there was something stirring about tracing those ancient stone outlines with the boy’s commentary in our ears.

Eventually, we reached the eastern gate. With no small amount of drama, the boy paused and told us, “This is where Siddhartha left the palace. This is the path he took when he renounced the world.” And so, we followed in silence through the gate and onto the dusty road beyond. A quiet moment for reflection but suddenly, we were brought back to reality when a motorcycle whizzed past us. Nevertheless, that moment pressed itself deeply into the heart. The past may have faded into earth and stone, but its echoes still linger.

Kyoto 2024, Day 4

In hindsight, I suppose our little adventure to Mount Hiei achieved most of what I had in mind—though not quite everything. I’d originally planned this outing with a modest but earnest intention: to walk one of the trails winding through the mountain forests and make my way, on foot, to the historic Enryaku-ji temple. It’s one of Mount Hiei’s most renowned spiritual landmarks and the highlight of the entire mountain. But, as it turned out, the day had its own ideas.

The morning didn’t begin as briskly as I’d hoped. We indulged in a long, lazy lie-in, the kind where one eye occasionally peeks at the clock and then shuts again waiting for the next alarm to ring. Eventually, we stirred ourselves out of bed and made our way down to the hotel breakfast room, where we dawdled some more over coffee and toast. The walk to Omiya Station was unhurried, bordering on leisurely, and by the time we reached Demachiyanagi Station to catch the Eizan line, I already suspected that the clock was no longer our friend.

Still, spirits were high. The Eizan train took us through scenic suburbs until we arrived at Yase-Hieizanguchi, where a short walk brought us to the base of the mountain at Cable Yase station. From there, our ascent to Mount Hiei’s summit began. The first leg was aboard the Eizan Cable Car—a classic funicular, reminiscent of the one going up Penang Hill, with that same satisfying clunk as it climbs the slope. At the halfway point, Cable Hiei Station, we were meant to transfer to the Hiei Ropeway, a proper cable car that would whisk us up to Hiei-Sancho Station at the top of the mountain. That, at least, was the plan.

But just as we were about to make the transfer, we were waylaid by the sheer beauty of the scenery around Cable Hiei Station. All around us, the maple trees had exploded into their full autumn glory. Fiery reds, deep oranges, golden yellows. The entire hillside looked as if it were ablaze. It was the kind of visual that stopped us in our tracks. We wandered, we gawked, we took photos, we lost all sense of time. We were like children again, skipping through the trees, shuffling through fallen leaves, marvelling at nature’s ability to outdo any man-made spectacle.

It wasn’t until sometime after two o’clock that I checked my watch and realised, with a jolt, that the morning had vanished. So much for hiking to Enryaku-ji! But at that point, our stomachs were louder than our regrets, and thankfully, the top station wasn’t too far off. We hopped aboard the ropeway and soon found ourselves at the summit, where the first sight that greeted us was a sign for Café de Paris.

It was, quite literally, a sight for sore eyes and growling bellies. The name alone hinted that we shouldn’t expect any udon or soba here and sure enough, the menu was unapologetically French. A charming little eatery offering things like gratins, onion soup, buttery tarts and freshly brewed coffee. The whole experience was a surprise, a taste of continental Europe perched atop a Japanese mountain, surrounded by cypress and cedar trees. It felt wonderfully surreal.

As we later discovered, the café was actually part of the Garden Museum Hiei, an outdoor art garden inspired by the French Impressionists. It was one of those unexpectedly curated spaces that Japan seems to specialise in: part cultural tribute, part horticultural wonderland. The museum blended themed gardens (there was a fragrance garden, a Monet-inspired water lily pond, and a rose garden) with life-sized reproductions of paintings by the likes of Monet, Renoir and Van Gogh. All of it artfully arranged on a hilltop offering sweeping views over Lake Biwa on one side and the Kyoto basin on the other. A gentle breeze, a gentle meal and a panorama that defied description. A quiet kind of magic.

We wandered through the museum grounds for a while, entranced by the flowers and the art, before a fine drizzle began to fall. Not quite enough to soak us, but just enough to make us duck into the souvenir shop and linger there longer than intended. By the time the drizzle let up and we emerged back into the open, the light was already beginning to fade. Dusk was descending, the chill was setting in, and it was clear that our hopes of reaching Enryaku-ji would have to be deferred to another visit, if there was another opportunity. It simply wasn’t practical or safe to go venturing further in the dark, especially on unfamiliar trails.

And so, with a slight tinge of regret but no real disappointment, we began our descent. Back down the ropeway, back onto the funicular and eventually back to the base at Yase. There, just as we were thinking about dinner, something unexpected caught our eye. A Lebanese restaurant tucked into a quiet corner near the station. Lebanese food. In Japan. Neither of us could quite explain the impulse, but it must have been the name. Falafel Garden. Somehow, we found ourselves stepping inside, drawn by curiosity and hunger. Till today, I still don’t know what possessed us, but the food turned out to be surprisingly good.

So no, we didn’t make it to Enryaku-ji that day. But did I regret it? Not really. Because what we ended up experiencing was something else entirely: a slower, richer and altogether more surprising day on Mount Hiei. One full of colour, art, food and small joys. Sometimes, detours make the best destinations.