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.

The middle-east question

If I was showing some concern several weeks ago about the disputed territory of Kashmir and how conflict might erupt between India and Pakistan, which did happen, there’s now something far more alarming brewing in the Middle East. Israel had launched a long-range military strike on Iran last Friday, targeting what it claimed were nuclear development sites. Iran, calling the attack unprovoked, retaliated almost immediately with a barrage of missiles into Israeli territory.

The situation has escalated into a tense aerial stand-off, with both sides trading strikes almost daily and no sign of it letting up. What’s particularly worrying is Iran’s blunt warning to the United States, France and Britain that if any of them so much as lift a finger to support Israel, their military bases in the region could be next. And let’s not pretend that Israel is acting in complete isolation. To suggest that they launched such a bold attack without at least a nod or a calculated silence from their closest ally, the United States, is naive. Washington doesn’t even need to give tacit approval. All they need to do is look away. That deliberate silence, that studied disinterest, is enough. It’s the sort of turning away that says: “Do what you must. We’d rather not know.” The dark hands of Washington are rarely absent in Middle Eastern geopolitics.

Why did this flare-up happen now, of all times? Perhaps it’s no coincidence that it came on the heels of stalled talks between the US and Iran over the dismantling of the latter’s nuclear programme. What better way to send a message than through a so-called “ally”? The subtext is loud and clear: refuse to play ball, and you’ll be bombed into submission. Israel may have pressed the button, but it sure looks like Washington was in the war room too.

Now, I’m not here to pick sides. Frankly, I don’t care what Israel or Iran do to each other. But I do care when their war begins to affect the rest of us. The world is already struggling with rising inflation, fuel price volatility and the aftershocks of Donald Trump's ongoing tariff games. The last thing we need is a new conflict to throw another wrench into an already fragile global system. Spare the rest of us the fallout from your dangerous games!

POSTSCRIPT: Below is an extract from a BBC story by Lyse Doucet, one of their senior correspondents that I'm quite familiar with, on their website today. The story, "Where is Israel's operation heading?" had these few pointed paragraphs:

Iran's negotiators now suspect that the talks, which were set to resume in the Omani capital Muscat on Sunday, had all been a ploy to convince Tehran an Israeli attack was not imminent, despite mounting tensions. Israel's blistering salvos on Friday morning caught it off guard. 

Others also see the timing as significant. "Israel's unprecedented strikes were designed to kill President Trump's chances of striking a deal to contain the Iranian nuclear programme," says Ellie Geranmayeh, deputy head of the Middle East and North Africa programme at the European Council on Foreign Relations. 

"While some Israeli officials argue that these attacks aimed to strengthen the US leverage in the diplomatic path, it is clear their timing and large-scale nature was intended to completely derail talks." 

Officials with knowledge of these negotiations had told me last week that "a deal was within reach". But it all depended on the US moving away from its maximum demand for Iran to end all nuclear enrichment, even from much smaller single-digit percentages commensurate with a civilian programme. Tehran viewed that as a "red line". 

After President Trump pulled out of the landmark 2015 nuclear deal in his first term, partly under repeated urging from Netanyahu, Iran moved away from its obligation to restrict enrichment to 3.67% - a level used to produce fuel for commercial nuclear power plants - and started stockpiling too. 

In this second attempt, the US leader had given Iran "60 days" to do a deal – a window viewed by mediators with experience and knowledge of this field as far too small for such a complex issue. 

Israel attacked on the 61st day.

Life lessons

The sobering story of the past week was the horrendous air crash in Ahmedabad which took the lives of all except one on board and 30 to 40 more on the ground. Air India Flight AI171 had crashed on take-off from the airport, stalled mid-air and ploughed into the canteen of a medical hostel nearby. It was the kind of tragedy you wouldn’t wish on anyone, and yet it happened...just like that. Amidst the wreckage and grief, there are lessons to learn. Not grand, philosophical ones but real, human ones.

There was the family that perished. A young couple with three children. After years of effort, paperwork, delays and saving every rupee they could, they were finally on their way to the UK. The father a software engineer there, the mother a medical doctor in India. They had secured visas, they had sold off most of their belongings, this was going to be a new chapter. But life, with its usual unpredictability, turned the page for them. Their story reminds us how we all keep saying “next year,” “after the kids finish school,” “once things settle down.” But sometimes, that “someday” we’re all waiting for doesn’t come. Their loss is a sharp, cruel reminder: plan, yes, but don’t put life entirely on hold.

Then there was the woman who missed the flight. She had been late—only by 10 minutes, but the gate was closed. No amount of pleading worked. In the moment, it felt like a disaster. She was furious, distraught, crushed by what seemed like a missed opportunity. But now, she’s the woman who didn’t get on the plane. The one who walked away with her life. Sometimes what feels like a setback is something else entirely. We don’t always get what we want, and occasionally that’s the luckiest thing that can happen to us.

There was also the survivor. Just one. He had no idea what happened. One moment he was seated and the next, chaos. He remembered kicking the emergency door open, and then he escaped the burning wreckage. He was noticed and immediately brought to hospital. No one expected anyone to survive but he did. He doesn’t call it luck. He doesn't call it fate either. It was just kamma, life, handing him another chance. What he does with it now, he says, is entirely up to him.

And then, there are all the others. People who had said goodbye that morning with the usual casualness. A peck on the cheek. A distracted wave. A reminder to call after landing. And then—silence, no hellos after the goodbyes. Their lives were cut short in an instant, leaving unfinished stories behind. Plus all those medical students and doctors, having their lunch in the canteen. One minute eating and bantering with friends and colleagues, the next minute, gone. That’s the part we never want to think about. That we’re all temporary. That tomorrow is not guaranteed.

So what now? It’s this: don’t wait too long. Don’t leave things unsaid and undone. Don’t keep putting off the apology, the conversation, the idea, the dream, the action. Life is short, but it’s also unpredictable. We may not get a warning. Sometimes, there really is no next time. If you love someone, let them know. If you’ve been holding back from something meaningful, start doing it. Do it now, while you still can. While you're still breathing, still capable, still here.

Because as this past week has shown us, even the most ordinary day can turn into something unthinkable. And sometimes, the difference between life and death is nothing more than a missed gate, a changed seat, or a decision made two minutes too late.

Nepal 2025, Day Four (II: Mahavana forest)

Visiting the Mahavana Forest wasn’t part of our original plans. But after a thoughtful suggestion came from one of the monks at the Dhammadāyāda Meditation Centre, we agreed it would be meaningful to include it in our itinerary, especially as it lay not far from Kapilvastu where the ruins of the Buddha’s parents’ palace still stand. It felt like a natural extension to our journey, one that would deepen our understanding of the Buddha’s life. 

The Mahavana Forest is a quiet, unassuming patch of woodland that holds a profound place in early Buddhist history although it is not the sort of place that makes a grand first impression. At a glance, Mahavana looks like any other grove scattered across the countryside with thickets of trees and shaded clearings. But walk a little deeper into its stillness, and we begin to sense the weight of something sacred.

Getting there, however, was not without its challenges. Our Toyota Hiace could only take us as far as the Mahavan Sappaya Mahasthan Monastery, where the tarred road gave way to a rough dirt track. From there, the only way forward was by the local tempo, those hardy little three-wheeled motorised vehicles so commonly seen in Nepal. All nine of us squeezed into two tempos. The back row seated three rather snugly, while two more perched precariously on both sides of the driver, holding on to their dear lives.

The ride was bone-rattling. The track was narrow, uneven and littered with loose stones and fallen branches. At times, it felt as if the tempo might topple over as it negotiated bends and ditches, but somehow the vehicle held firm, even under the weight of its passengers. It was every bit as jarring as our earlier drive up to Dhammadāyāda but with the added benefit of daylight, at least we could see what was ahead.

Eventually, we arrived at a clearing: the Mahāsamaya Place. It was here, in the 15th year after his enlightenment and on a full moon day, that the Buddha intervened to resolve a bitter dispute between the kingdoms of Kapilvastu and Koliya over the sharing of the waters of the Rohini River. To bring about lasting peace, he ordained 250 soldiers from each side into the monastic order. It was a bold act of reconciliation and transformation. To these 500 monks, the Buddha later convened the Great Assembly at this very spot and delivered the Mahāsamaya Sutta which was so profound that even celestial beings from distant realms were said to have gathered to listen.

We found a well-trodden path that led gently downhill towards the banks of the Banganga River. As we walked down, we passed by the Mahāsamaya Cave. Though it’s referred to as a cave, it isn’t the deep, echoing type one might imagine. More of a rock shelter or overhang, shallow and simple, than a deep cavern. Yet, it was large enough to seat about eight people in quiet contemplation. We imagined the Buddha sitting here to deliver his discourse to the arahant monks and celestial beings. Inside was a small symbolic Buddha statue, placed there by past devotees and still venerated today by those who make the journey to follow in the Buddha’s footsteps.

Soon after, we retraced our steps back to the clearing where the tempos were waiting. On the way down, we made one more important stop at a small gate. Inviting ourselves in, we were drawn to a small enclosure sheltering some Hindu deities. Archaeological findings suggest that a monastery once stood here during the Pāla Dynasty in the eighth century. Stone slabs unearthed in the area bore the symbol of the Noble Eightfold Path representing ethical conduct, concentration, and wisdom along with other early Buddhist motifs. Today, no physical remains of that monastery are visible. There is only a signboard marking the historical importance of the site. 

All for a sticker

Saw See and I found ourselves at the SPICE Setia Convention Centre last Thursday for a full-day event aimed at Penang’s small and medium enterprises (SMEs). It was just one of three such roadshows organised by CTOS. The big question is how did we even get involved with the SME scene in the first place?

Long story, really. It began when Saw See decided to set up her own small business, offering services to anyone who might need them. By definition, her business fell into the SME category. Then she joined a trade organisation called SAMENTA, and from there, we became part of the wider SME community. That’s how we started getting invited to events like this—programmes designed to benefit small business owners.

Thursday’s event kicked off with a speech by Jagdeep Singh Deo—he's with the Penang state government—followed by a morning of speakers and presentations. I missed all of that completely because I got caught up wandering the exhibition hall, hopping from booth to booth. There was this little gimmick of collecting stickers from all the exhibitors, filling up a card, and getting qualified to spin on the wheel-of-fortune. But there was a catch. To get a sticker, one had to register with each exhibitor which meant giving away your name, email address, mobile number—basically handing over your personal data just for a shot at a freebie. Classic data farming. Looking back, it was a bit of a waste of time. I should’ve just gone into the hall and listened to the talks.

Anyway, that’s exactly what I did after lunch. Finally settling down and pating attention to the speakers. And they were good. Informative, engaging and far more rewarding than chasing down stickers. Lesson has been learnt.