Super full moon 2025

There have been quite some excitement among my friends that there would be a super-full moon today. They got all flustered up, thinking this was some rare celestial event happening. Actually, this phenomenon isn’t some rare cosmic miracle, but it always feels that way when we see one. It happens when the moon is full and coincidentally also at its closest point to Earth in its monthly orbit. Because the moon doesn’t travel in a perfect circle but in a slightly squashed ellipse, there are times when it swings a bit nearer to us. When that happens during a full moon, it looks noticeably larger and brighter than usual. 

Image by Kenj Ooi
from Penang Walkabouts facebook 

It is most noticeable when it first rises above the horizon, glowing low and heavy, almost too big for the sky. That’s partly an optical trick of the mind, but also the real effect of it being closer. The difference is only a few tens of thousands of kilometres, but that’s enough to give the moon a fullness and brilliance that photographs never quite capture. A super full moon, in other words, is the same familiar moon which is just a little nearer to us.

Super full moons usually come in a trio, over three consecutive months. So if we miss the first one, there are still two more chances to catch the others. For 2025, the super full moons will occur today at 11.47am, then on the fifth of November at 9.19pm and again on the fifth of December at 7.14am. Of course, in daylight we won’t see the October and December ones at their peak, but it’s comforting to know they’re there all the same.

Last night, being the fifteenth day of the eighth Chinese lunar month, I tried looking for the moon around 8.30pm, but thick clouds had covered the sky. At best, I could make out a faint brightness behind the haze. Even at 11.30pm, the situation wasn't any better. Then, quite unexpectedly, I woke around four in the morning and, unable to fall back asleep, stepped outside with my camera. The sky was perfectly clear, no cloud in sight, and there it was in the western sky — a brilliant orb of light. The super full moon in all its glory, shining at 99.8 percent illumination. As close as I could get, this time, to capturing the beauty of the October supermoon.

Mooncake festival

Today is the 15th day of the Chinese eighth lunar month, the Mid-Autumn Festival or Mooncake Festival is in full swing with worship sessions by the clanhouses this morning all over George Town. As usual, I had to make my way to the Swee Cheok Tong for our own worship of the Kongsi's deities and ancestral memorial tablets.

The Mooncake Festival is one of the most important occasions for Malaysia’s Chinese community. Falling on the full moon of the eighth lunar month, usually in September or early October like today, it marks a time of reunion and thanksgiving. The roundness of the moon and of the mooncake both symbolise harmony and completeness, reminders of family togetherness that have endured through generations.

The mooncake itself remains the heart of the celebration. The traditional baked kind, with its thin golden crust and lotus seed or red bean filling, sometimes hiding a salted duck egg yolk like a small sun inside, still carries a quiet dignity. But Malaysia being what it is, we’ve never been content to stop there. Over time, the flavours have multiplied: pandan, green tea, coffee, even the durian snow skin mooncake with its soft, chewy skin and aroma. No matter the variety, mooncakes are meant to be cut and shared, ideally with a pot of Chinese tea to temper their sweetness. A ritual of togetherness as much as of taste.

When I was small and still staying in the Seang Tek Road house, my grandparents observed the festival with their own quiet devotion. Around 8.30 at night, the excitement would mount. Once the moon had risen bright and round, we would go upstairs to the back terrace on the first floor. There, they would lay out a simple altar comprising a joss-stick urn, a pair of candle holders, a few mooncakes and fruits, and always the ang kong piah, those animal-shaped pastries that fascinated children far more than the mooncakes ever did.

Unlike the proper mooncakes, the ang kong piah had no filling at all but just a solid lump of baked dough that stuck to the teeth when eaten, but that was part of their charm. Most were shaped like piglets, though occasionally there'd be a fish or some other animal shape among them. What truly delighted me was the packaging. A little dough piglet snug inside a tiny plastic cage, bright and colourful, like a toy pen you could carry around afterwards.

If the weather was fine, the full moon would shine above us, bathing the terrace in its soft glow. My grandmother would murmur their prayers to the Moon Goddess, Chang’e, while we stared up at the sky, wondering if we might actually see her, until Apollo 11 changed everything. Nevertheless, those were simple nights, unhurried and filled with quiet wonder. These were  the kind of moments that remain forever. Even now, whenever I catch sight of the full moon at Mid-Autumn, I can still picture that terrace at Seang Tek Road, the smell of incense curling in the air, and the small cages on the table bathed in the moonlight, all reminders of a gentler time and of family.

Triangular games

For this year’s annual triangular games between the alumni associations of the three legacy English schools in Penang, there is something new to celebrate: the inclusion of chess for the very first time. What began as a suggestion last year, when the President of the Penang Chess Association raised the idea with me, has now taken shape. This Sunday, The Old Frees’ Association, The Old Xaverians’ Association and the Methodist Boys’ School Union (formerly the Anglo-Chinese School Union) will meet across the chessboard at the MBSU premises in Edgecumbe Road, adding a fresh chapter to the long tradition of these friendly rivalries.

I won’t be playing as the OFA team already have a strong line-up, led by none other than Jonathan Chuah, twice the Malaysian national champion in 1999 and 2006, now better known as a coach and arbiter, but still eager to return to competition when the occasion calls. The last time he donned OFA colours was at last year’s USM team tournament, and it is heartening to see him back again. As for me, I’ll be at the MBSU on Sunday to give my full support as a busybody, proud to witness chess taking its rightful place among these historic games, both as an OFA member and as a committee member of the Penang Chess Association.

UPDATE: No, the OFA team did not win the chess competition in the triangular games. OFA was beaten by the OXA team by a 1½-2½ scoreline over the first four boards, the fifth and sixth board results not counting towards the final points. OXA had obliterated MBSU 4-0, while OFA could only overcome MBSY by 2½-1½. So, The Old Xavierians' Association came out worthy winners in this first chess contest with The Old Frees' Association in second place and Methodist Boys' School Union taking the third spot. MBSU were gracious hosts and laid out a fine spread for breakfast and lunch. There was also a blitz tournament thereafter, won by the OXA payer, Lee Wei Hong.

Tragedy at Na Uyana

A terrible accident has struck the Na Uyana Aranya Senasanaya monastery in Sri Lanka. Last Thursday night, around 9:00pm local time, 13 monks boarded a cable-drawn rail cart to return uphill to their kutis after a religious ceremony. Midway, the steel cable snapped, the cart plunged down the tracks and crashed. Seven died from the impact while six were injured - four critically, two with lighter wounds. Among the dead were three foreign monks from India, Russia and Romania; the rest being Sri Lankan.

In hindsight, the tragedy could have been avoided. The cart was designed for six passengers but it carried more than double its limit. When Saw See and I visited Na Uyana with friends in January 2024, we were shown the upper and lower stations of this very system. At the time it was idle, undergoing repairs. Had it been working, we would almost certainly have tried to ride it not out of necessity, but simply for the experience. I shudder now to think how easily it could have been us instead of the 13 monks. By sheer good karma, we were spared, and for that I am deeply grateful.

But gratitude quickly gives way to sorrow. Our hearts ache for the seven monks whose lives were cut short, and for the six still struggling with their injuries. And our thoughts also go out to the other monks who call Na Uyana their home and sanctuary. The silence in the aranya must now be weighted with grief and the echoes of an accident that shouldn’t have happened.

The ultimate lesson here is a painful one. Human failure can occur at any time to anyone, and the failure to respect the limits of a machine, the failure to prioritise safety over convenience, can break even the most serene environments.

As a footnote, it is sobering to note that this is the second rail car accident to occur in September. On the third of this month, Lisbon’s popular Glória funicular derailed and crashed, killing at least 17 passengers and injuring many more. Again, a faulty steel cable sent a carriage hurtling down the slope until it smashed into a building near the base. Two tragedies, seemingly worlds apart, yet sharing the same cause and the same lesson that vital parts can fail and when they do, the consequences are merciless.

These accidents remind us that vigilance cannot be optional. Maintenance must be regular, rigorous and beyond compromise. Safety checks must never be reduced to routine box-ticking. Closer to home, I hope the Penang Hill Corporation reflects deeply on these disasters and ensures that our own funicular railway, where the trains run fast and steep, receives the most scrupulous care. We cannot afford complacency, for one lapse is all it takes to turn a place of joy into the scene of another tragedy.

Next international master?

I’d just returned from the 20th Malaysia Chess Festival about a week ago. It was a good experience, slipping back into the groove as a working arbiter after such a long lay-off, though I must admit it wasn’t without anxieties. Knowledge fades and confidence wavers when they're not used, and I often found myself second-guessing small details. If I’m serious about continuing as an arbiter, I’ll need more hands-on practice. But do I really want that? The hours on my feet were longer than any chess game, and at my age, it’s not something I relish. The truth is, I only wanted to take the “inactive” tag off my name on the FIDE list. Whether I’ll succeed in doing so remains to be seen.

Still, there were plenty of bright moments during the festival, and one in particular stood out. I watched a 14-year-old boy, Kavin Mohan, achieve his second international master norm in the Open tournament. Kavin has been around the circuit since he was six, and I’d noticed him several times before. Last year in Penang, he turned up at the Eastern Asia Youth Chess Championships, playing in the under-14, but he didn’t make much of an impact there. Even then, he was already a Candidate Master. By October he had broken into the national team, playing on board three at the Chess Olympiad in Budapest. That experience, the exposure to world-class opposition at such a young age, must have been transformative. He came back brimming with confidence and the following months proved it.

In December 2024, he tested himself again at the Singapore International Open. Then, in April this year, he made a breakthrough at home by winning the Malaysian national championships. July brought him back to Penang for the ASEAN+ Age-Group Chess Championships, and I began to watch him more closely. He looked a little overwhelmed by the occasion there, his results indifferent, but something had already begun to shift. In August, at the Chess Hub–MCF GM-IM Invitational in Kuala Lumpur, he scored his first international master norm. Barely a month later, in September, he came roaring at the Arthur Tan Memorial Malaysia Open, winning the event outright and collecting his second norm in the process. Two norms in the space of two months, that’s impressive for anyone, let alone a 14-year-old boy.

What’s more, his rating tells the same story. In May last year, he had only just scraped past the 2000 barrier. Today, even before his Malaysia Open victory is counted, he sits at 2309. Once the September results are published, I expect another 37 points will be added, pushing him close to the 2350 mark. From there, the next big milestones will be obvious: secure a third IM norm and cross 2400. That will take him into new territory, and I suspect it won’t be long.

Of course, Kavin is not alone on this road. He belongs to a generation that is already reshaping Malaysia’s chess landscape. Alongside him is Poh Yu Tian, only a year or two older, who is now chasing his first grandmaster norm after proving himself in tough European tournaments. And always ahead, setting the standard, is Yeoh Li Tian, Malaysia’s first grandmaster-elect and the player who showed that the barrier could finally be broken.

It would be too simple to label them as past, present and future. The truth is, their journeys are happening together. Li Tian continues to fly the flag at the top, Yu Tian is pushing hard towards the same goal and Kavin, not far behind, is steadily ticking off each milestone. Three different points on the same road, their struggles and triumphs feeding into one another. To me, they represent the strongest wave of Malaysian chess talent we’ve seen for a long time and perhaps the best chance yet to make our mark on the wider stage.

Should I believe this? 😶

Trust Andrew Ooi aka Gilachess to do a search on me with Perplexity AI. But mind you, it's artificial intelligence, okay? Susceptible to hallucinations at times..... 😜

What Perplexity AI says about the man:

Quah Seng Sun is a prominent Malaysian chess figure known for his decades-long contributions as a player, official, writer, and chess promoter.

Chess Relevance

Quah Seng Sun was actively involved in the Malaysian chess scene from the 1970s, representing Malaysia at international team events, including playing for the national team at the inaugural Asian Team Chess Championship in Penang (1974).

He participated in founding meetings of the Malaysian Chess Federation (MCF) and contributed to the growth of chess associations, especially in Penang.

Quah is a FIDE International Arbiter and has served as an organizing chairman for major events, such as the Wah Seong IM Invitational, helping cultivate local chess talent and bring international events to Malaysia.

Chess Writing and Promotion

He was the principal chess columnist for The Star newspaper, Malaysia’s major English daily, from 1980 to 2012, and is recognized for shaping chess coverage in the country.

Even after the regular column ended, he continued contributing important stories, including tributes to influential chess patrons and coverage of Malaysia’s major chess milestones, both locally and on international platforms like ChessBase.

His efforts have been instrumental in documenting Malaysian chess history and promoting the achievements of leading players.

Legacy

Quah Seng Sun remains a respected voice in Malaysian chess, with a legacy that spans player representation, journalism, event organization, and chess education.

His activities have had a lasting impact on the national chess community, helping nurture and publicize new generations of Malaysian players.

Of Myrmidons and Mystery Men

The Merdeka rapid chess open team tournament ended yesterday, and while our two Old Frees Association teams didn’t win anything, we were still glad to be part of it. The OFA Myrmidons finished in 43rd place while my OFA Mystery Men ended up 53rd. Still, our presence was more about taking part and supporting an event that’s been going strong for 42 years.

It was quite hilarious. We arrived at the tournament hall and discovered
that the table cloths were also similarly coloured! Someone else commented
that this was also the colour of a local fast food chain. 

This year’s tournament looked like one of the more successful editions in recent memory, with 93 teams in the Open section and another 61 in the Junior section. It was quite a crowd. Finding the venue at the KL Gateway Mall was the easiest task but the bigger challenge was finding our way to our AirBnb accommodation. Some stayed at the Gateway Residences while others at the Gateway Premium Residences, two completely different locations at opposite ends of the Mall. It was more than a bit of a maze, having to walk outside, around the mall's building, to find the entrance to the Premium Residences, but eventually everyone got there. 

The organisers had secured a wide open space on Level Two of the Mall itself, which worked well enough, except for one big drawback: the lighting. It was dim and made it hard to read the digital chess clocks properly. Hopefully that gets fixed if there’s going to be a 21st Malaysia Chess Festival next year. So far, I haven't heard the organisers conclusively calling it a day yet and thus, I am hopeful that we shall return to Kuala Lumpur for yet another year for this event. 

Remembering Tan Boon Lin

Today would have been the 98th birthday of my old headmaster, Tan Boon Lin. Instead, we marked his passing just five days earlier on the seventh of September. His was a life that spanned almost a century of change. Born in 1927, he came of age during the turmoil of the Second World War, finished his schooling at the Penang Free School where he had been both a Boy Scout and Senior Prefect between 1939 and 1947, and then returned to the same institution as a teacher from 1951 to 1955 and later in 1963 as the headmaster. His appointment made history: he was the first Asian to hold that position, guiding the school until 1968. From there, his career rose steadily through promotion after promotion until retirement, after which he spent a short period at Tunku Abdul Rahman College before finally stepping away from public life. That, in essence, was Tan Boon Lin: remembered above all as the Free School’s first Asian headmaster, but also as a man who left a lasting imprint on generations who passed through its gates.

My first real encounter with him came in 1966, the year I entered Form One at the Penang Free School. At that time, we were confined to the afternoon session under the watch of an Afternoon Supervisor, so direct contact with the headmaster was rare. Still, there were moments when his presence was felt to remind even the youngest boys who held the reins of authority in the school. Things changed a year later when Form Two was moved to the morning. Mondays meant School Assembly in the Pinhorn Hall, and that was when Tan Boon Lin became a more familiar figure. 

One can imagine almost 1,500 students packed into the hall, the Prefects trying to keep order while a steady murmur filled the space as schoolmates chattered away. Out on the corridor, a Prefect stood watch for the headmaster’s approach. At the first sight of him, a signal was sent, the bell rang and the murmur dissolved into silence immediately. Such was the discipline. Then came the unmistakable clip-clop of his shoes along the floor, each step drawing nearer until he appeared at the doorway and walked down the aisle. Decades later, that same clip-clop sound found its way into one of the videos on Penang Free School which Siang Jin and I worked on together. It was our quiet tribute to Tan Boon Lin, a simple gesture of respect for the man whose presence had once commanded the School.

When he was eventually transferred out from the Free School, that was the last I saw of him. For decades he slipped into the background of memory, until the end of 2011 when his name surfaced again in my life. That October, I had taken on the task of co-editing The Old Frees’ Association commemorative book, FIDELIS. Among the contributions was a piece by Lim Chang Moh, who had interviewed our former headmaster for the book. A few months later, in April 2012, not long after the book was launched, I made my way to his home in Petaling Jaya to present him with a copy. It was the first time I had set eyes on my old headmaster since 1968. Naturally, he didn’t recognise me (because I wasn't outstanding in school at all) but he received me with the warmth of an old friend. I’ve found this to be true of teachers and headmasters: even if the faces of their former students blur with time, the joy of reconnecting never fades. The gratitude flows both ways. We are thankful for the paths they opened for us, and they in turn take quiet pride in seeing how we have carried on.

As the Free School’s Bicentenary drew near in 2016 and I was tasked with producing another book, I found myself turning once more to my old headmaster for information. By then he was in the midst of finalising his autobiography, which included a chapter devoted to the three phases of his life at the school: student, teacher and headmaster. His daughter, Gaik Cheng, kindly shared a copy of that chapter with me on the condition that I use it only as background and not reproduce it verbatim. Later that year, on the evening of the 21st of October, he returned to the school for the Bicentenary dinner. It was a grand occasion, with former headmasters called on stage to be honoured, but it was his name that was announced first, to step forward and be introduced to the Raja of Perlis, Tuanku Sirajuddin Jamalullail, before receiving a copy of Let the Aisles Proclaim.

When The Old Frees’ Association reached its own 100th anniversary in 2023, I found myself once again with the privilege of writing a commemorative book—this time simply titled CENTENARY. Months later, in March 2024, I visited my headmaster at his Petaling Jaya home to present him with a copy. He had prepared for the meeting. On the table before him were his well-kept but bookmarked copies of FIDELIS and Let the Aisles Proclaim. When I placed CENTENARY alongside them, his face lit up. Another book on The Old Frees' Association, another chapter in the story of the Penang Free School. By then he was very frail, already 97, and I was careful not to linger too long. After an hour or so of gentle conversation, I took my leave, never imagining it would be the last time I saw him.

But the story didn’t end there. There was a coda. In 2024, his autobiography was ready to see the light of day. One day I received a call from Gaik Cheng. Could I lend a hand with some coordination with the printers in Penang? How could I ever refuse? So I went down to Areca Books, looked over the proofs, checked for stray details that might need correction—small things, but enough to feel I had a part in the process. It turned out to be a privilege, a first-hand glimpse of On Making a Difference before it reached the public. The book was officially launched at The Old Frees’ Association annual dinner on 21 October 2024, a fitting tribute to the man whose life had been so bound up with the Free School.

And now, with his passing, the circle feels complete. From the headmaster I first glimpsed as a nervous Form One boy in the Pinhorn Hall, to the dignified elder statesman I visited in his twilight years, Tan Boon Lin remained a steady presence in the long story of the Penang Free School. I count myself fortunate to have crossed paths with him more than once, not only as his student but later as a chronicler of the school and The Old Frees’ Association. He lived long enough to see his own autobiography published, to place his voice alongside the history he had helped to shape. For us, his former students, that will always be his gift: the reminder that a life devoted to teaching and guiding others truly makes a difference. Rest in peace, Headmaster. Fortis atque Fidelis.

 

Malaysia chess festival

By this time tomorrow, I’ll be at KL Gateway Mall with my chess friends from The Old Frees’ Association, ready to take part in the 20th Malaysia Chess Festival in its present format. We're playing in the Merdeka team rapid chess event, now in its 42nd year. Wish us luck!

The Malaysia Chess Festival stretches over nine days. It begins on the 12th with the SMS Deen Merdeka open rapid team championship, the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam Merdeka junior (under-12) team championship and the Merdeka blitz chess championship. On the 13th comes the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam age-group chess championships. From the 15th to the 21st, the spotlight shifts to the marquee events: the Dato’ Arthur Tan Malaysia open championship, the Daniel Yong memorial Malaysia chess challenge and the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam seniors open chess championship. On the 16th, the Dato’ Tan Chin Nam Malaysia Day age-group chess championships take place and finally, the Festival draws to a close on the 21st with the Festival blitz chess championship. Without doubt, this is a crowded calendar, but that is exactly what a chess festival should be: a celebration of the game, with events for all ages, gender, levels and walks of life.

This year’s festival marks a departure from tradition. Since 2003, the event had always been held at Cititel MidValley or the adjoining Megamall. But this time the organisers missed the chance to block the dates early, and the hotel had already taken other bookings. That left them scrambling for alternatives, and KL Gateway Mall became the choice. Whether its facilities can match what Cititel once offered is something we’ll soon find out.

For those of us coming from out of town, the convenience of staying and eating at Cititel is no longer there. Instead, we’ve booked Airbnb apartments above KL Gateway Mall. It means that come Saturday morning, instead of heading down to the hotel restaurant for a familiar breakfast, we’ll have to venture out to find food before settling into our games.

Two decades is a long time for any event to run, and I can’t help wondering if the organisers might be thinking of calling it a day. Since its inception in 2003, the festival has enjoyed strong support from IGB Berhad, thanks largely to the late Dato’ Tan Chin Nam. But since his passing in 2018, that commitment hasn’t felt as steadfast. I’ve been told that sponsorship now comes with more conditions attached and less to offer in return, which has inevitably made the festival less attractive in the region.

Whether the organisers have the energy and resources to stage a 21st edition remains to be seen. Perhaps this will be the last hurrah. But if you ask me, I hope it isn’t. Twenty years may be a natural point to pause, but it would be a pity to see the Malaysia Chess Festival end just yet.

Tan Boon Lin, 1927-2025

 Sad to hear of the demise of Tan Boon Lin, my first Headmaster in secondary school. He was the first Asian appointed as Headmaster of Penang Free School from 1963 to 1968. I shall pay a tribute to him in my blog this Friday.

Kyoto 2024, Day 5

Continuing with the documentation of our holiday in Japan last year, the 17th of November marked our fifth day in Kyoto. The day before, we had gone up Mt Hiei and been rewarded with sweeping views and a riot of autumn colours. After such an excursion, we thought it best to slow down a little. With our holiday beginning to wind down, we decided to move around the city itself and take it easy.

That morning we woke later than usual, and after a simple breakfast we set out. Our first destination was Tō-ji Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage site not far from Kyoto Station. It was already past noon when we arrived. By mid-November, one never knows quite what to expect with the autumn foliage. Some years the colours arrive early, other years late. In 2024, the colours were only beginning to show during our visit. So we were a bit lucky to see some splashes of red and yellow among the temple trees.

Walking through the precincts, we were struck first by the spacious layout. Wide gravel paths criss-crossed the grounds, bordered by ancient wooden halls and a carefully tended garden. The Japanese garden was a particular delight: a reflective pond edged with stones, maples bending gracefully over the water, and raked gravel sections that seemed to invite quiet contemplation. At the centre of it all rose the temple’s most famous landmark, the five-storey pagoda. At 55 metres, it is the tallest wooden pagoda in Japan, rebuilt in 1644 after earlier versions were destroyed by fire. Its dark timbers and sweeping eaves rose elegantly into the sky, a sight so iconic that it has come to serve as a symbol of Kyoto itself.

Tō-ji, or “East Temple,” has been part of the city’s story for more than 12 centuries. Founded in 796, just two years after Kyoto was established as the imperial capital of Heian-kyō, it originally formed a pair with Sai-ji, the “West Temple,” which no longer survives. The Japanese Buddhist monk, Kūkai, better known as Kōbō Daishi, made the temple a centre of learning and worship, and to this day Tō-ji remains one of the Shingon school of Buddhism's principal sites.

One of the halls was hosting an exhibition of Japanese paintings and drawings. It was a serene contrast to the bustling world outside. The works on display were elegant and understated, filled with motifs so central to Japanese art: pine trees, cranes, waves, and mountains. Even without fully grasping the artistic techniques, it was impossible not to admire the balance and clarity of the compositions.

The buildings themselves were architectural wonders. Their great wooden beams and rafters interlocked with astonishing precision. I found myself wondering whether nails were used at all. Later, I learned that much of traditional Japanese temple architecture relied on intricate joinery, with slots, grooves and interlocking joints holding everything in place. 

We spent about two hours wandering through Tō-ji, never in a hurry, simply taking in the gardens, the halls and the pagoda that towered above it all. Hunger eventually nudged us back towards the city streets. A small udon restaurant caught our eye, and although I have always preferred ramen, I decided to give it a try. The bowl was hearty and satisfying, proving that perhaps Japanese food really does taste best in its own country. Still, it was a curious experience as we found ourselves the only customers in the restaurant the whole time. Maybe it was already past the usual lunch hour, leaving us with a strangely quiet dining room.

After lunch we boarded a bus bound for Gion. I was checking directions on my phone when I realised too late that we had missed our stop. The bus sped away into unfamiliar streets until we hurriedly pressed the button to get off. Yet the mistake turned into a small gift: we found ourselves walking through parts of Kyoto that we would not normally have seen. Eventually we caught the right bus and resumed our journey to Gion.

This time the contrast was complete. The bus was packed, shoulder to shoulder, so crowded that we were squeezed in like sardines. Perhaps it was because it was a Sunday; tourists mingled with locals, everyone heading into the historic district for the weekend. It was almost a relief to step down into the streets of Kashiwayachō, where the atmosphere was lively but no longer overwhelming.

There we found a small shop selling onigiri. We bought a few and quickly realised just how good they were: plump, perfectly seasoned and among the best we had ever tasted. We enjoyed them so much that we decided to buy extra for the next day’s breakfast.

Dinner that evening was simple. We stumbled across a nondescript stand-up noodle diner run by an elderly husband-and-wife team. There were no chairs, only a counter where customers stood, slurped their noodles and left. It was unpretentious, stripped of ceremony, but that was its charm. The noodles were hot, the broth comforting and the couple moved with the efficiency of long habit. We ate quickly, paid and stepped out into the Kyoto night. Another small memory added itself to the tapestry of our holiday.

India, Nepal next

After months of waiting and wondering, I finally hear that the Nandaka Vihara meditation society in Bukit Mertajam has decided to go ahead with a pilgrimage tour to India and Nepal this coming November and December. It’s something that’s been hanging in the air since that first exploratory trip we made to Nepal last June. The handful of us who went returned with our hearts stirred and our imaginations alight. We told stories of standing at Lumbini's Mayadevi temple where the Buddha was born, of visiting Kapilavastu where he spent his childhood and youth, and of walking through the Mahavana forest where he once preached to hundreds of thousands of beings. These were not just casual tourist stops but places alive with memory and meaning.

It was no surprise then that the feeling among the rest of the regular visitors to the Nandaka Vihara grew stronger: they too must go, they too must see these places for themselves. The request to the Nandaka committee became something of a gentle chorus. Persuasive at first, then heartfelt, and finally irresistible. And now, at long last, the wish has taken form. The pilgrimage is happening.

This time, though, the itinerary stretches beyond Nepal. It sweeps into India, touching the very milestones of the Buddha’s life. At Kushinagar, we shall gather at the site of the Buddha’s parinibbana, the serene reminder of impermanence and release. At Rajgir, we’ll walk where the first Buddhist council convened to safeguard the teachings. Bodhgaya will surely be the highlight: to sit under the Bodhi tree, but not the original tree, to connect with the enlightenment that changed the world. Then there is Varanasi, where the Buddha gave his very first sermon. Each of these sites promises not only history but a chance for reflection and inspiration.

The rest of the journey will be a mixture of city-hopping, visits to temples and shrines, and long hours on the road. Covering so much ground in just 16 days will not be easy. There will be stretches of bus rides that test everyone’s patience endurance. It won’t just be buses: to save time, the group will fly from Kathmandu down to Lumbini, sparing themselves what would otherwise be a long, bone-wearying ride. Later in the trip, there’s the added adventure of a train ride from Varanasi to Agra.

The weather will play its part too. In November and December, the summer heat will have long gone, and the monsoon rains would be over. Days should be mild, sometimes even cool, especially in the mornings and evenings. As it can get surprisingly chilly once the sun goes down, jackets and shawls will come in handy. I'm hoping for clear skies, especially in Nepal where I hope to see the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas in the distance.

Still, for all the planning, schedules and travel logistics, the real meaning of the trip lies in what we hope to bring home within us. Some may be looking for a sense of closeness to the Buddha’s life, walking where he once walked. Others may seek inspiration for their practice, to sit quietly at Bodhgaya and renew their commitment to the path. And for many, it will simply be the shared experience of travelling together, enduring the discomforts together and collecting life-long memories. I have to admit that I'm in the third category.

And just before the journey draws to a close, there will be one final stop in Agra. Here, we shall wonder at the splendour of the Taj Mahal, one of the world’s most celebrated testaments to love and loss. The white marble mausoleum gleaming in the winter light will stand in striking contrast to the brick ruins and sacred groves we visited earlier. It is not a religious site in the Buddhist sense, yet its grandeur will still leave an impression. In its own way, the Taj Mahal shall remind us that beauty and impermanence, devotion and grief, exist in all human experience.

 

Those silent mobile calls

Last week, I wrote here about the fake Facebook friend requests that land in our notifications with regularity. This week it’s the turn of another petty irritation. This one arrives not through social media but through the good old-fashioned telephone call: the kind that rings once, we pick up and immediately it is gone.

At first, I wondered if these were some exotic new scam, like the so-called “one ring” tricks that tempt you into dialling back premium numbers. But actually, these are more mundane, if no less irritating. They come from robocallers and autodialers. Sometimes, dropped calls from busy call centres. The real culprit, though, is usually a machine pushing through numbers at industrial scale.

It is a familiar pattern. Our phone rings, we answer, a silence from the other end, and then click, gone. A dead line. That silence is a machine quietly registering our number as live so that we confirm ourselves as targets for the next wave of nuisance calls.

How did they get our numbers in the first place? I suspect through the endless breaches of telco and online government databases, or some website portal with leaky security. Our details get spilled into an underground marketplace of the Internet. Once a number escapes into that underground marketplace, it never escapes. It gets copied, repackaged and resold. Other times, the fault lies with “legitimate” data brokers, who scoop up information whenever we sign up for something trivial, in exchange for their free gifts. A common ploy nowadays which I counter with fictitious numbers and email addresses. Then there’s brute force autodialers that simply spin through every possible number in a given sequence until someone answers. 

And finally, spoofing. The number flashing on the mobile screen may look local or familiar, but it is fake. The sensible course of action is not to call back. Don’t feel obliged to answer unknown numbers. Block nuisance calls when we can, which I've begun to do lately. None of this will make the problem go away but at least it helps to know the game the scammers are playing.

If there’s any consolation, it’s that silence is still the best reply. Don't even say hello. After all, why waste words on a machine that doesn’t listen? At least with phones, unlike with people, we can block the number with a single tap and move on with our lives.

Talk-cock lunch

Saw See and I missed the last talk-cock gathering of ex-BHLBank cronies in June because we were away on a semi-pilgrimage holiday in Nepal. So when word came that the latest lunch session would be held this month, I made sure to keep our calendar clear. After all, how often do we really meet in person? Whatsapp and other social media may keep us connected, but nothing replaces face-to-face banter and the warmth of old friendships.

Let me be clear, these talk-cock sessions among us former Ban Hin Lee Bank staff have nothing to do with any large-scale reunions aimed at drawing in the masses. Far from it. We are simply a bunch of old colleagues from the mainland who enjoy catching up, though lately we’ve been joined by a small group of islanders as well. I suppose the fact that they are willing to cross the Penang Bridge says something about the lack of such opportunities on the island. For now, we mainlanders seem to be the ones keeping the BHLB flame alive. Hopefully, others will take the cue and start their own little circles too. The more, the merrier, in my opinion.

So, coming back to yesterday’s session, the turnout of 16 was heartening. Our surprise guest was Loo Ee, and it was a joy to see him back on his feet after a minor stroke had left his lower limbs a little weak. His mind, though, remains sharp, and he recognised everyone at the table.

Moments like these remind me why we keep showing up. It isn’t for anything grand, but for the simple comfort of old friends and familiar stories. As long as we can still sit around a table, trade jokes and laugh at ourselves, the BHLB spirit will carry on. And we're already looking forward to the next one. Two months from now, maybe?

The Gang of 16 comprised (standing, left to right) Swee Phew, Soo Chin, Fook Chin, Pak Chun, Hock Seng, Seong Lye, Soon Huat, Chong Chia, Yuen Chee, Khye Wye and I, and (seated, left to right) Heng Boo, Kay Liang, Loo Ee, Seak Chin and Saw See

Tiam sim (aka dimsum)

This morning as I broke open a twa pau to show its juicy contents to friends on my Whatsapp chat group, I thought back to the tiam sim I used to enjoy in Penang during my youth.  The Chinese characters for this delectable cuisine is 點心. In Mandarin, it is called diǎn xīn; in Cantonese, dim sam, from which we derive the English dim sum, but in Penang, with Hokkien spoken at home, we always called it tiam sim. Same Chinese characters, same meaning, but a different voice. It’s one of those charming quirks of Penang speech. Cantonese words and food names slip into the Hokkien we speak until they felt like ours. So while Cantonese teahouse culture gave the world dim sum, in Penang the term tiam sim is rooted firmly in my own place and memory. 

Tiam sim has always carried with it more than just the taste of food. It is a story of culture, travel and companionship that began centuries ago in southern China. Tiam sim literally means “to touch the heart,” and that name alone gives a clue to its original purpose. It was never meant to be a full meal but rather a light refreshment, something to accompany a pot of tea.

The practice first took root along the old Silk Road during the Song Dynasty. Traders and travellers, weary from their journeys, would pause at roadside teahouses scattered across Guangdong. At first, these places offered only tea to soothe the body. Over time, teahouse owners added small snacks of steamed buns, pastries and little bites to fortify the traveller without weighing them down. That modest addition slowly became a tradition: tea paired with small bites that touched both heart and stomach.

Cantonese chefs refined this into an art form over the centuries. What began as a few snacks grew into an entire repertoire—siew mai, char siew pau, egg tarts, spring rolls—steamed, fried or baked, carefully fitted into bamboo baskets. The teahouses themselves transformed from roadside stops into lively social halls. Families and friends gathered not just for tea, but for the experience: table chatter, porcelain cups, steaming baskets arriving on the table. This became known as yum cha, “to drink tea,” but everyone knew it meant sharing our time and food.

When I was growing up in Seang Tek Road during the 1960s, my first memories of this food culture came from the Seng Kee Restaurant on Dato’ Kramat Road, not more than a hundred metres from my home. In the mornings, Seng Kee came alive with a bustling tiam sim trade. People crowded in for steaming trays of dumplings, buns and savoury rice dishes before heading off to work. By late afternoon the restaurant shifted to popular noodle dishes like sar hor fun or yee mee, but mornings were always tiam sim.

Tho Yuen Restaurant down Campbell Street had a more refined reputation. It was one of the grand old Cantonese restaurants of Penang, its tiam sim considered more traditional and authentic. The Tai Tong Restaurant in Cintra Street was different again, known for its lively atmosphere and slightly more modern approach. Where Tho Yuen leaned towards refinement, Tai Tong was brash, busy and always full. In comparison, Seng Kee sat somewhere between the two: less formal than Tho Yuen, not as boisterous as Tai Tong, but with a character all its own.

For all its closeness to home, I don’t recall eating in with my father more than five times in my youth. On those rare occasions, we would order dumplings such as char siew pau, bak pau or the very large twa pau. Alongside these were other favourites like lor mai kai, siew mai and kau chee, all washed down with steaming hot Chinese tea poured into porcelain cups. More often, my routine was to pop in early in the morning and buy takeaway before school. The twa pau in particular was a hefty, filling bun packed with chunky chicken and pork, a slice of lap cheong, a Chinese mushroom, a quarter of a hardboiled egg and generous thin slices of jicama cut into half-inch squares. It was a meal in itself, so solid that one bun could keep me going until recess.

There was also the curious case of kau chee siew mai. As a tiam sim item, it is probably non-existent but a muddling of names between the siew mai and the kau chee, two different types of dumplings. The siew mai are the open-faced steamed dumplings, filled with ground pork and sometimes prawns, and topped with crab roe although nowadays this is replaced by a dot of edible red dye. They are cylindrical shaped with exposed filling at the top. The kau chee are crescent-shaped, fully enclosed steamed dumplings with various fillings such as pork, prawns, cabbage, chives, etc. Whenever kau chee siew mai was ordered, what appeared before us were two separate steaming bamboo baskets of siew mai and kau chee. 

And then there was a small quirk of dining habits in those days. When served a twa pau, many people wouldn’t actually eat the fluffy dough. Instead, they would split it open with chopsticks, carefully pick out the filling of pork, chicken and savoury gravy, and leave the thick white skin untouched. To them, the bread was heavy and bland, a burden to the stomach. The taste and the pleasure lay in the meat, and the pau skin was treated like nothing more than a wrapper to be discarded.

Seng Kee’s morning tiam sim was less about indulgence than about routine, comfort and memory. The taste of a twa pau with its rich mix of meats, mushroom and egg; the smell of tea brewing in chipped porcelain cups; the sight of bamboo baskets stacked high on metal trolleys—all of it stitched itself into the fabric of daily life.

The tradition, of course, is not exclusively Penang's. As Chinese communities moved abroad from mainland China, the tiam sim morsels travelled with them. Hong Kong, especially during the colonial years, embraced the tradition and it became a global tiam sim epicentre, and from there it spread further to Chinatowns in San Francisco, London, Sydney, Kuala Lumpur. Each place adapted slightly but held fast to its roots.

Today, tiam sim remains as food wrapped in memory and ritual. It is the sight of trolleys weaving between tables, steam rising from baskets, the tapping of fingers accompanying the pouring of tea. The spirit of community keeps the tiam sim tradition alive. From ancient teahouses along the Silk Road to Seng Kee in Penang, to modern venues across the globe, the tiam sim stays true to its name: it touches the heart.

And even now, whenever I bite into a twa pau or a mouthful of kau chee siew mai, that memory of mornings at Seng Kee comes rushing back. Memories of fresh steam, warm dough, early morning light. It is in those small, delicious moments that I find home, no matter where I am.