It's all in the planning!

My blog, It’s All In the Planning, is gone. Officially, I let it lapse on the 19th of last month. For years, I had toyed with shutting it down, yet each time the renewal reminder arrived, I gave in and paid the fee out of habit and sentiment. But there comes a point when even old projects deserve their rest.

It’s All In the Planning was my second attempt at blogging. The real beginning was with ssquah.wordpress.com, which I started in 2007 when The Star temporarily ended my chess column in February that year. That little WordPress blog was my way of filling the sudden void. I needed a release for my creative energy and found it in a blog. Unfortunately, WordPress in its infinite wisdom decided one day that I had violated something or other, and suspended it without warning.

Frustrated but unwilling to stop, I moved on to a local hosting provider and set up It’s All In the Planning. I even reproduced all my earlier writings there so nothing was lost. That’s the blog that lasted the longest, and in a sense became my most enduring online home.

When I finally ignored the automated emails asking me to renew the domain, letting it slip away on the 19th of July, it felt like closing the door on a chapter that had been with me for well over a decade. Traffic had dwindled to almost nothing, and I hadn’t written anything new there for years. The site had become a shadow of its former self, and the stories had already been safely archived, so there was no risk of losing them. What remained was only a domain name and my own stubborn attachment to the past.

Now, anyone visiting the site would be greeted only by the blunt finality of an error page: a simple punctuation mark at the end of a long, quiet sentence. 

Nevertheless, writing never really stops. It only shifts its ground. What I once poured into It’s All In the Planning has long since found continuity here on this present blog, Anything Goes. The voice there is the same as the voice here, only tempered by time and filled with more reflection as I grow older. Those first two blogs may be gone, but the act of writing carries on. One chapter closes, another continues.

Fake facebook friend requests

How much can Facebook be trusted nowadays? On a regular basis, I keep receiving friend requests from people I already know to have a Facebook account. When I dig deeper into these requests, I find that they come from newly created accounts with either very few friends or none at all, and with timelines that are completely empty. Should I be careful with accepting such requests? Absolutely.

In fact, these are classic warning signs of fake profiles, and there are plenty of risks if we are to accept them blindly. Scammers and spammers set up these ghost accounts precisely to gain access to our personal information. Once “accept” is clicked, they can peek into whatever we’ve set to “Friends only”: photos, contact details, snippets of our lives that we wouldn’t ordinarily share with strangers. That information is enough to be exploited. Sometimes for phishing purposes, sometimes for identity theft.

The danger doesn’t stop there. A fake “friend” can start messaging us with links, often dressed up as something harmless or even urgent. If we're not careful, we might end up with malware lodged in our devices, malware that quietly siphon away our data. There’s also the trick of impersonation: scammers pretending to be someone we know, sending messages to our real friends asking for money or sensitive information.

This isn’t just theory either. Several years ago, it happened to my wife. One day, I received a Facebook friend request under her name. I was puzzled: why on earth would she be opening a second account when she barely touched the first one? I asked her, and she flatly denied it. Then I showed her the request, and her reaction said it all: she hadn’t created the account. The giveaway was the profile picture. It was one of hers, but the choice of image was questionable. Controversial, even. That was the moment we both realised she had been impersonated. I immediately told her to lodge a complaint with Facebook, and eventually, that bogus account was taken down.

Cases like this are textbook examples of account cloning, where a scammer copies a name and a photo and then tries to worm their way into your circle of friends. Once accepted, they can start spreading their scams under the guise of someone you trust.

Over time, I’ve learnt to look out for red flags. A profile with very few friends and no posts is the most obvious. But there are subtler signs too, such as the account might be brand new with hardly any history, the profile picture suspiciously generic or lifted from elsewhere on the internet, or the page lacking the sort of personal touches a genuine account would naturally have, like school, workplace or location. very few mutual friends is another telling giveaway. And on the rare occasion the profile does have posts, they often read as oddly repetitive or littered with strange links.

So what to do? The simplest answer is to ignore the request. I don’t give a fake account even the faintest toehold into my social circle. If I’m certain it’s bogus, I alert the friend that has been impersonated. If there are mutual friends listed, I check with them directly, outside of Facebook if possible, before telling them to unfriend the account fast although it may already be too late to prevent any data loss.

For me, the lesson is clear: vigilance is the only safeguard. The Facebook of today is not the same platform it was in the past. It’s more crowded, more complicated and more riddled with traps. It's unfortunate, but one careless click can open a door I’d rather keep shut.

Kota Kinabalu

On the way down from Kinabalu Park, we pulled over briefly at Kampong Sinalapak where a row of roadside stalls stood ready to tempt travellers with their grilled meats. I had read earlier that their specialty was wild boar, a must-try if one ever passed through this way. Unfortunately, when we asked, the vendors told us that the boar meat wouldn’t be ready for at least another half an hour. As we didn’t have the luxury of waiting, we settled instead for their regular pork grilled over open flames. Perhaps it was the cut, or the way it was cooked, but the meat struck me as rather tough and chewy. It didn’t impress me and I wouldn’t be rushing back for it.

From there, the road brought us down into Kota Kinabalu, the bustling coastal city that in colonial days was known as Jesselton. The old name dated back to the British North Borneo Company, which had built up the town around its railway and trading port. Much of Jesselton was destroyed during the Second World War, and when the town rose again from the ruins, it eventually took on a new identity. In 1967, two years after the formation of Malaysia, Jesselton was officially renamed Kota Kinabalu, a name meant to reflect both the local heritage and the looming presence of Mount Kinabalu itself. 

Before checking into our Airbnb lodging, we made a quick detour to the FMM Sabah branch where Saw See wanted to say hello to the branch manager, an old acquaintance from her previous working days. The stop didn’t take long, and soon enough we were on our way to our accommodation in Tanjong Aru. The difference between this place and the cramped quarters we had endured in Kundasang was night and day. Spacious, airy and comfortable: everything one could want after a few days in the mountains.

That evening, we went looking for dinner, and a sudden craving pulled me in the direction of a Filipino restaurant. It had been more than 30 years since I last tasted Filipino food. My thoughts went back to Manila in 1992, when I had visited the Chess Olympiad and first discovered adobong baboi and lechon. I still remember how those dishes struck me back then. Adobo with its unmistakable sour tang from vinegar, earthy and comforting at the same time; lechon with its crisp skin that cracked under the bite and tender meat beneath. They were simple yet unforgetable meals.

Sitting now in Kota Kinabalu, those memories resurfaced. It’s funny how food can do that: how a flavour can unlock not just taste but time itself. I ordered the adobo and lechon again, half-curious whether they would match the flavours etched into my memory. They didn’t, not exactly, but that hardly mattered. The important thing was the recollection, the way each mouthful reconnected me back to Manila, finding comfort in its food.

This time, I also ventured into something unfamiliar: sisig. Later, when I mentioned it to a Filipino chess friend, Rico Mascarinas, he told me that sisig had grown into one of the most popular dishes in the Philippines. Back in the early 1990s, he said, you’d have to go to Manila to find it. Now, it was everywhere. To me, it was an intriguing dish, full of texture and zest, sizzling away with a fresh egg waiting to be mixed into the meat. Alongside it came pumpkin and prawns cooked in coconut milk. Altogether, it was a dinner that stirred memory, satisfied craving and left me with a renewed respect for Filipino cooking.

The next day was unhurried, a rare thing for us when travelling. We spent it leisurely in Kota Kinabalu without any particular agenda. A local café beckoned us with tuaran mee and Kuching laksa on the menu, both of which were welcome reminders of Sabah and Sarawak’s culinary diversity. Afterwards, we strolled along a shady, tree-lined Gaya Street, dipping in and out of shops, browsing without any intention of buying. 

My daughter pointed out the nearby now-closed Maybank branch which, oddly enough, had once become something of a tourist attraction. Apparently, a year earlier, the place had gone viral on Chinese social media and busloads of tourists turned up to have their photos taken in front of the bank. I shook my head in bewilderment. Why such things go viral, I will never understand. A bank is a bank, after all.

Later in the afternoon, we headed for the Shangri-La Resort in Tanjong Aru to catch the famous sunset. When we arrived, the seafront was already full with people, most of them tourists from China, jostling for the best views and selfies. It struck me as a pity that a high-end establishment such as the Shangri-La had to endure the kind of crowd that seemed out of step with its usual standards of elegance and exclusivity. Still, I must admit the sunset lived up to its reputation. The sky unfolded in magnificent colours—fiery oranges melting into purples and pinks—until the last rays slipped beneath the horizon. Dinner that night was another indulgence: seafood, fresh and plentiful, with crabs taking centre stage.

Our last day in Sabah brought us back once more to Gaya Street, this time for the Sunday morning market which locals had told us about. Perhaps my expectations were set too high, because the reality didn’t impress at all. To me, it felt more like an everyday pasar malam, but in the morning. Stalls upon stalls of the usual fruits, vegetables, trinkets, clothes and snacks. Pleasant enough, but nothing to write home about. We strolled into the October Coffee House where finally, I found my most exquisite cup of hot latte in Sabah, unlike the watery stuff that's commonly passed off as coffee. With all that done, we hurried back to pack, checked out of our Airbnb and made our way to the airport. A quick flight later, and it was Kuala Lumpur in our sights again.

Kundasang

Today’s the last day of our holiday in Sabah. We came with our daughter and her friend, spending two nights up in Kundasang and another two back in Kota Kinabalu. It’s been 17 years since we last came, and this trip really takes us back to 2008 when we climbed Mount Kinabalu. That adventure’s far behind us now. There's no way we can repeat it anymore. If only we were 17 years younger, things would be different.

Anyway, we arrived last Wednesday on an AirAsia flight from Kuala Lumpur. The flight was delayed by about 90 minutes but in hindsight, that wasn’t such a bad thing. By the time we landed, the heavy rain had eased off into a light drizzle, so it actually worked out. Lunchtime too, so we headed to a shop called Fatt Kee for their famous fish head noodles. After that came the long drive to Kundasang. At an elevation of almost 1,900m (6,200 ft), it is the highest settlement in Malaysia. It was already dark when we checked into our Airbnb homestay – a little place called Tiny House.

Befitting its name, it really was tiny and compact: just about 12 feet by 16 feet, with a small ground-floor bedroom that felt more like an 8x8 box, and an equally small bathroom. My daughter and her friend had the loft space, which was bigger but the steep staircase put me off. So, Saw See and I stayed put downstairs. The dining area was outside the house, and we had to deal with three curious cats that kept hopping onto our laps, eyeing our food. One even overturned the rubbish bin to get at the bones. In the end, I weighed down the lid with a heavy stool to stop this nonsense.

The next morning, Mount Kinabalu was completely hidden by thick mist and clouds. But we made up for it by checking out Anooh Coffee nearby – a cosy café with good coffee and views of the surrounding hills. Later, we visited the Kundasang War Memorial, which was beautifully kept and quite moving, especially the gardens built in memory of the soldiers. From there, it was on to the Desa Dairy Farm, with its “New Zealand” scenery of rolling green pastures and grazing cows – and of course, the fresh milk and ice cream everyone comes for. By late afternoon, we wandered through the open-air market in Kundasang, browsing local vegetables, fruits and flowers. The place was lively, with the usual friendly chatter from stall owners.

The following morning, I stepped outside and finally got my reward. Mount Kinabalu stood there in full glory, the sky clear and blue, with wisps of mist circling the summit. Even Laban Rata was clearly seen. It was a surreal sight, and it instantly brought back memories of my very first visit to Kinabalu Park with schoolmates back in 2006. I joked to my daughter that the mountain was calling me again – but sadly, climbing it now is out of the question.

Still, we did spend about two hours inside Kinabalu Park before the long drive back to Kota Kinabalu. Had lunch there and took a short stroll along the Silau Silau trail. Not quite the same as climbing to the top, but it was enough to bring back a flood of memories.

Only a marginal setback

We have had good news coming our way regarding Malaysia’s first grandmaster, Yeoh Li Tian, that it was easy to forget that Poh Yu Tian was also chasing a grandmaster norm at the same time, but in Europe. For the whole of July, he had been playing in Spain and Switzerland before heading to Hungary. The last time I wrote about him, the 16-year-old Poh had just finished the Biel Masters Open tournament in a very creditable sixth place.

Going into Budapest, the boy had reason to believe this could be a significant step forward. His performance at Biel had been solid, leaving him with more than just rating points. He had momentum, his games had been sharp, his calculations clear and the idea of securing a first GM norm felt within reach.

That kind of progress changes perspective. On the way from Biel to Budapest, it would have been natural for his thoughts to wander towards the numbers: what score he needed, how important a strong start could be. Confidence suggests readiness, but it also makes the stakes feel higher.

The first round in Budapest went well. Yu Tian defeated GM Miklos Galyas, a result that seemed to confirm his Biel form was no fluke. His play was assured, the positions handled with care. It was the kind of beginning one hoped for when chasing a norm.

Round Two brought a draw against IM Anto Cristiano Manish. A steady, reasonable result that didn’t shift momentum too much but kept him on track. By my estimate, he could only afford to drop two points from the nine rounds and here, the draw meant half-a-point gone. In a long tournament, these half-points, especially against slightly lower-rated opposition, are part of the rhythm. 

Round Three was the first real challenge. Facing GM Fodor Tamas Jr, Poh suffered a loss. Against a higher-rated opponent, such setbacks are part of the landscape. Yet even so, it’s a reminder that the margin for error will grow slimmer with every round. Here, he could only afford to drop one more half-point.

Then came Round Four. FM Ajay Santhosh Parvathareddy, more than 200 rating points lower. In a norm run, this is the game Yu Tian was expected to win. Yet, sometimes, even when everything seems in place, things don’t go as planned. One small misjudgment led to another, and before long, the scoreboard showed a loss. By then, having expended 2½ points, the possibility of achieving the grandmaster norm had already slipped beyond reach. One-third of the way across the globe, my friends and I felt his pain,

Coming off Biel, Yu Tian must have carried a sense of readiness, a belief that he could meet the challenge of this field. That confidence took a hit, replaced by the need to reassess and find footing again. It’s part of the journey many face in these high-stakes moments.

He managed to steady himself in the rounds that followed but I sensed the lack of spark needed to change the tournament’s course. Draws against WGM Josefine Safarli, IM Bence Daniel Pribelszky and IM Gia Huy Banh kept him in the event, but the grandmaster norm was already out of reach. On paper, these results weren’t failures, but for a player chasing a very specific goal, the loss of each half-point felt like a reminder of what was slipping away.

By the last two rounds, freed from the pressure of chasing a norm, Yu Tian seemed to find a bit more ease in his play. In Round Eight, he converted a clean win against Jan Golecki. The final round brought a solid draw with GM Sahaj Grover. It was a professional and steady finish to a tournament that began with promise and ended with a quiet acceptance that a GM norm was not easy even in a tournament such as this SixDays in Budapest.

If there is a lesson in this, it should be about how players deal with the mental journey. How to keep the emotions of one difficult loss, especially against a lower-rated opponent, in check before the next game is played. At the same time, every opponent deserves respect, no matter their rating. A lapse in focus against any competitor can undo days of effort.

Poh Yu Tian should take heart that this was a necessary chapter on his path toward a grandmaster norm. Progress is rarely plain sailing. More often, it is marked by bursts of confidence, moments of difficulty, setbacks and recovery. The important thing is to ensure that the setbacks do not derail the journey entirely, and that the next opportunity can be met with fresh determination.

Lunch with Royalty

Had a invitation from Syed Sultan, the headmaster of Penang Free School, to an official lunch function yesterday on the occasion of the visit by the Raja Muda of Perlis, Tuanku Syed Faizuddin Putra, and his consort. Was glad to have Lean Kang there, my PFS student leadership workshop partner-in-crime. I guess we should be flattered with this special invitation from the Headmaster because the only other Old Frees I recognised were Alex Tan and Ivan Ooi who were representing The Old Frees Association and Yayasan Penang Free School respectively, and Syed Mohammad Aidid, the chairman of Penang Port Sdn Bhd. 

On the stage, the School Band gave a very polished performance while the Boria troupe stole the day with their colourful and impressive entertainment. The Perlis Prince was introduced to a group of boys from his home state, maybe six or seven of them, who had been selected by the Yayasan Tuanku Syed Putra to study at the Free School since last year. They are now in Form Two.

Glioblastoma

I lost a schoolmate, known him since we were in Standard Two together, at the beginning of this year to glioblastoma. Now, I’ve just heard from another friend that he is going through the same ordeal, and he’s undergoing surgery in Taiwan today. News I find hard to fathom. The same rare, aggressive brain cancer striking two people I know in such a short span of time.

Glioblastoma (GBM) is not our garden-variety tumour. It’s the most common type of malignant brain tumour in adults, and also the most aggressive. It begins in those support cells in the brain that normally help keep everything running smoothly. Once they go rogue, they don’t just form a neat lump you can scoop out. GBM sends tendrils deep into healthy brain tissue, thus making the idea of a complete removal more of a wish than a reality.

There are two main types. Primary GBM appears out of nowhere and barrels ahead full-speed, while secondary GBM starts off as a slower, lower-grade tumour before mutating into the full-blown menace. Either way, the result is the same fast growth, sudden symptoms and an uphill battle.

The signs can come quickly. Persistent headaches that refuse to budge, seizures out of the blue, nausea, weakness or numbness on one side of the body, problems speaking or finding the right words, blurred or double vision, changes in mood or personality, memory issues, even balance problems. It all depends on which part of the brain is under siege.

Treatment revolves around surgeons, oncologists and radiologists. The first step is surgery to remove as much of the tumour as possible without causing more harm. But they can never get to all those invasive tendrils. Radiation follows to target the area where the tumour was. Then comes chemotherapy. But even with the best treatment, survival hovers around 15 to 20 months. My friend lasted 10 months after surgery. Some people beat the odds and live several years, but long-term survivors are rare.

There’s plenty of research going on with new drugs, immunotherapies, better surgical methods and genetic profiling to personalise treatments. But for now, the reality is harsh. So today, while my friend is in an operating theatre in Taiwan, I’m thinking about how fragile things are. How one ordinary day can suddenly turn into a fight for your life. And how unfair it feels when lightning strikes twice in your own circle of friends.

Totsu-totsu

I first came across the totsu-totsu dance several years ago quite by chance when I attended a workshop organised by Dr Cecilia Chan at the Bagan Specialist Centre in Butterworth. I remember being intrigued not just by the gentle rhythm of the movements but also by the man leading it. He was a genial Japanese gentleman named Osamu Jareo, whose warmth seemed to fill the room.

The totsu-totsu dance isn’t a performance in the theatrical sense; it’s more like a quiet conversation between body and mind. The movements slow and deliberate, feet tapping, simple arm gestures that sweep through the air like you’re brushing away clouds, using simple props like stools. There’s a natural sway from side to side, a subtle rocking forward and back, each step paired with steady breathing. No rush, no strain, just an unhurried, slow-motion flow that feels almost like moving through water.

Originating in Japan, the totsu-totsu dance was created as a community-building exercise for seniors, particularly those living with memory decline. Its name, “totsu-totsu,” echoes a Japanese onomatopoeia that suggests a slow, rhythmic tapping much like the heartbeat of the dance itself. In Japan, it’s often taught in eldercare centres and community halls, not only for physical activity but as a way to bring people together in a calm, non-competitive setting.

That day in Butterworth, I didn’t think too much about it beyond the pleasant novelty of seeing an unfamiliar form of movement therapy. But the memory stayed with me.

Fast forward to this year’s George Town Festival 2025, Saw See and I were wandering around the Hin Depot after dinner with See Ming, a friend visiting from Kuala Lumpur, when we stumbled upon a small group in rehearsal. There was that same unhurried rhythm, the same gentle swaying, and it brought back memories of the dance we’d seen in Butterworth. And yes, there was Osamu again, still radiating that same patient energy. We noticed Cecilia practicing her introductory spiel and went up to say hello.

Seeing it again, I realised how well suited the totsu-totsu dance is for dementia therapy. Its repetitive, predictable patterns help stimulate memory recall and give participants a sense of mastery. The slow tempo reduces the risk of falls while still engaging balance and coordination. For caregivers, joining in becomes a shared experience. A rare moment where both can move together without the pressure of achievement, just the comfort of presence. There’s something grounding about it, as though the steady rhythm quiets the mind and makes space for connection.

Perhaps that’s the real gift of the totsu-totsu dance: it’s less about the steps themselves, and more about creating a gentle rhythm that people can immerse themselves into, together.

From The Star to Chessbase

I've achieved another small milestone in my chess journey: for the first time, I've been published by the world-renowned ChessBase website. Every chessplayer worth his salt knows ChessBase, the Number One authority in chess news, and fronting their homepage today is my story on Yeoh Li Tian, soon to be Malaysia's first grandmaster once his achievement is ratified by the World Chess Federation. My article, From Prodigy to Grandmaster, traces Yeoh’s 20-year journey from a bright-eyed six-year-old to the history-making player he is today. You can read it by clicking here. [UPDATE: Chessbase India has also carried my story here.]

It took quite a bit of effort to get this story out. After Yeoh won the ChessHub–MCF First GM–IM Invitational Tournament at the Corus Hotel in Kuala Lumpur on the third of this month, I had to dig deep into my computer archives to retrieve a story I'd quietly kept on standby since 2018, in anticipation of this day eventually arriving. I went through it once, twice, many times, updating the facts, rechecking the timelines, polishing the phrasing (and still, one fact managed to slip through wrong!).

My regular chess column in The Star was discontinued back in March 2012, but there was an understanding that I could submit stories on an ad hoc basis if the occasion called for it. And to me, that meant only when something truly significant happened. In all these years, I had used that privilege only once, in October 2018, to pay tribute to Dato’ Tan Chin Nam after his passing. He had done so much for chess in this country. At the time, I remember thinking the next momentous occasion worth writing about would be when Malaysia finally produced its first grandmaster. By 2019, Yeoh had already secured two GM norms. The mood then was optimistic. The third norm felt imminent. So I drafted my first version of the story even though I had no idea when it would see the light of day.

Fast forward to this month, and during Yeoh’s ninth-round game against Nayaka Budhidharma, eyes across the country were glued to the live broadcast. When the final handshake came, and the result confirmed, I know for a fact that cheers erupted from living rooms, chess centres and WhatsApp groups everywhere. Suddenly, chess was news again. And I was ready. My story only needed its final polish. 

Believing that The Star ought to have the right of first refusal, I wrote to both editor@thestar.com.my and the Chief Content Officer, a rather grand title for Chief Editor, if you ask me, offering them the story. One day passed. Then two. Nothing. No reply. No acknowledgement. Look, I don’t care whether one is ordinary or a Datin Paduka, but professionalism should mean that one shouldn't be too busy to ignore little courtesies. Basic courtesy dictates that you at least reply to someone you’ve published before. Not too big a demand. Basic courtesy, get it? But no, just silence. Complete silence. To this day, not a word. Rather high-handed, right? And this from a media house fretting about declining readership and circulation. Good luck to them.

Thankfully, I had another avenue. Edwin Lam, who has contributed regularly to ChessBase over the years, recommended I send the story there. Over the last few days, I’ve been corresponding with their editorial team, and the version published today is a significantly updated and expanded version of what I originally sent to The Star. Do enjoy reading it.

The writing on the wall

All good things must come to an end, and it’s with a heavy heart that I say the student leadership workshops my friends and I have been conducting at the Penang Free School since 2017 might have come to a close earlier than I had expected. Our last session at the school was in 2023. We took a one-year hiatus after that because one of our core team members was indisposed. Unfortunately, that break disrupted the rhythm and continuity we had built up over the years.

Several weeks ago, we approached the headmaster with a proposal to hold one final workshop, just to give some closure to the programme. After all, none of us are getting any younger. The passion remains, but the reality is that conducting two to four weekends of intensive coaching is physically demanding. Still, we wanted to give it one more go.

Over the last two weeks, my fellow coach held interview sessions with potential participants from the school’s sixth formers. The first session brought in 11 students. Some were truly outstanding, others just beginning their journey in leadership, hoping to grow in confidence. All spoke well in English, and we were quietly encouraged. We looked forward to the second interview session, hoping to hit a minimum of 16 participants. That was our threshold. Without that number, it would be hard to proceed.

As it turned out, there weren’t enough of them. The school tried to help by including some fourth formers, but my friend felt strongly that mixing cohorts like that wouldn’t work. Too big the age gap risks making the dynamics in group discussions suffer. I trust his judgment. He consulted the headmaster, and together, they agreed to call it off.

His principle has always been clear: quality over numbers. This was never about saying “we did a workshop this year.” Every participant deserved a genuine, high-quality experiential learning journey. And if we couldn’t offer that, we shouldn’t waste anyone’s time, least of all the students’.

So unless something changes in the coming weeks or months, the student leadership workshops may truly be over.

GM-elect Yeoh Li Tian

CONGRATULATIONS 

to Grandmaster-elect

YEOH LI TIAN

He shall be Malaysia's first chess grandmaster.
A dream of the late Dato' Tan Chin Nam fulfilled.
Fifty-one years in the making, but what a sweet moment.

(NOTE: I shall provide a full commentary at an appropriate time.)

We wait for Yeoh Li Tian

(Image from the MCF website)

Malaysia's 26-year-old international master, Yeoh Li Tian, holds his fate in his hands this morning as he faces Indonesia's young upstart, Nayaka Budhidharma, in the ninth and final round of the Chess Hub-MCF first GM-IM invitational championship in Kuala Lumpur. Already with two Grandmaster norms under his belt, he is aiming for the unprecedented third norm which shall qualify him to become Malaysia's first-ever chess Grandmaster. The attention of the chess-players are all tuned in to him. Best of luck, Li Tian!

To follow the game on the Lichess server, click on the link below: https://lichess.org/broadcast/chess-hub-mcf-1st-gm-im-invitational-chess-championship-2025/round-9/49R4YjKO/ZRvui2QJ

My mother's relatives

My mother’s side of the family was a lot more complicated than my father’s. There were simply a lot more people to keep track of. For a start, my maternal grandfather, Oh Joo Siew, had a brother named Joo Hock who lived in Port Swettenham, the old name for what we now know as Port Klang. Granduncle Joo Hock had several children, including three daughters my mother always referred to as “the three sisters from Kang-Khao (港口),” this being the colloquial name for the Port town. 

One of them eventually settled in Petaling Jaya. She had four children and by pure chance, I crossed paths with one of them at a chess tournament in Selangor. We played our game, made polite conversation, and still didn’t know we were cousins. Only when I visited him later at his home did we discover our family connection. That cousin, Phuah Eng Chye, later stood beside me as the Best Man at my wedding. We still keep in touch. Through him and others, I’ve remained connected to many of my cousins with the Oh surname, particularly Harry, Amy, Peggy, and a few more whose names now slip my mind.

Together, we managed to trace our Malaysian roots back to our great-great-grandfather, Oh Cheng Chan. As it turned out, he was a contemporary of Cheah Chen Eok, the man who built the Queen Victoria Memorial Clock Tower in George Town. I've already written of Oh Cheng Chan many times previously.

My maternal grandmother was Tan Kim Lean, the eldest in a family of five boys and two girls. Of her siblings, I can recall only five names: Boey Hooi Hong, Tan Hooi Teik, Tan Hooi Cheng, Chan Fui Kam and Tan Kim Bee. One of the brothers died during the Japanese Occupation, and I never knew his name. You might wonder why the eldest, Hooi Hong, had a different surname. But this wasn’t unusual in those days. Families sometimes gave a child up to be named by a godfather, who lent his surname for one generation. In Hooi Hong’s case, his son reverted back to the family surname; full name being Tan Kuan Hai.

As the siblings married, they moved into homes of their own. Granduncles Hooi Hong settled in a townhouse along Hutton Lane, Hooi Teik lived on Gopeng Road, Hooi Cheng in Green Road Four and Fui Kam along Lim Lean Teng Road. Grandaunt Kim Bee, meanwhile, lived with her husband, Chong Swee Cheang, in a modest attap house in the Ayer Itam village. Their three daughters, my mother’s cousins, were part of my growing extended world. The eldest, Hoon Goey, had married a Eurasian man, Ralph de Vosse, and lived in a government quarters in Bayan Lepas with a clear view of the airfield. Visiting them was a real treat for a small boy like me. I'd be watching aircraft land and take off with wide-eyed wonder alongside my four cousins there: Eddy, Eleanor, Edgar and Edwin. Uncle Ralph was a passionate stamp collector, and it was from him that I picked up the hobby. I remember being fascinated by the names and colours of faraway countries. My stamp album became my first geography teacher.

Grandaunt Kim Bee’s two other daughters were Hoon Cheng and Hoon Kew. Sadly, Hoon Cheng passed away sometime in the 1980s from complications after surgery to fix a congenital heart defect. Hoon Kew eventually married and is settled down in the Zoo Road area of Ayer Itam. There was also an adopted daughter in my grandaunt's family. Hoon Eng, the daughter of Granduncle Swee Cheang’s brother, had also grown up under their roof. She married Goh Eng Kheng in 1952 and had seven children of her own. That attap house in Ayer Itam must’ve been bursting at the seams. With so many voices and so much activity, it had the energy of a kampung within four walls.

And if that sounds complicated, well—it was. All these women were daughters of two very close sisters. Naturally, there were tight family bonds. But the twist came when my parents and Hoon Eng agreed to make me her godson. Just like that, I found myself with a new set of godsiblings: Johnny (Huat), Susan, Simon (Leong), Dolly, Rosie, Lilian and Raymond. It was the first sudden expansion of my little universe.

Still, my parents and I continued to live with my maternal grandparents in our rented house on Seang Tek Road. Life still went on as normal. Every month, the rent collector would come around. I can’t remember the exact figure now. Was it $16 or $32 every month? Either way, that little moment of ritual was part of the rhythm of our lives back then.

I assume Grandfather Joo Siew and Grandmother Kim Lean had lived there ever since their wedding on 17 March 1927. As his brother was in Port Swettenham, Grandfather often travelled back and forth between the towns, sometimes bringing along his two precious daughters, Oh Cheng Yam and Oh Cheng Kin. Those trips must’ve been formative, because the two girls from Penang and their three Port Swettenham cousins bonded for life.

My mother, Cheng Kin, was the younger of the two sisters, but the first to marry, to my father, Quah Ah Huat, in January 1954. Aunt Cheng Yam married a decade later in 1964 to Quah Boo Seng, who shared the same surname as my father but wasn’t directly related. Then again, our ancestors were Ow-Quah clansmen from Tia Boay (鼎尾) village in Hokkien Seng, China, so perhaps a more distant kinship existed. From their marriage came Irene Quah, my closest cousin on that side.

But Uncle Boo Seng had already been widowed once and had six children from his earlier marriage: Swee Beng, Molly, Swee Eng, Swee Siang and Swee Kheng. I was elated, welcoming them into the extended family, totally embracing their sudden appearance and presence, the second time in my life. I was closer to Swee Kheng since we were both in Standard Five at Westlands School, thus sharing a kind of kinship that went beyond family trees.

I can’t help returning now to one particular memory of the house in Seang Tek Road. It wasn’t just where my maternal grandparents lived, it was the family hub, the place where everyone returned to during festivals, the kong-chhu (公厝). Come Chinese New Year, the Mid-Autumn mooncake festival, the Seventh Moon offerings or the Winter Solstice Tang Chek celebration, the house came alive. The memorial tablets of our great-grandparents had a special place in the hall, atop a cupboard where Granduncle Hooi Hong kept his book and magazine collection. I’d flicked through old copies of Popular Mechanics without understanding much, except being fascinated by the pictures and illustrations. Maybe it was because of this collection that I found a special affinity with Granduncle Hooi Hong. In his old age, I would visit him in Hutton Lane, each time bringing with me a new tin of cocoa powder as a gift. Not Van Houten but Cadbury. I'd sit with him, talked with him, before moving on. I never did this with the rest of them. 

During festivals, Grandmother would lead the charge in the kitchen, preparing elaborate Nyonya dishes with help from her daughters and a few of my granduncles' wives. They’d lay everything out on the table to invite the spirits home for a meal. The granduncles brought their own offerings of sweet meats, fruits and even durian if they were in season. After the worship, there’d be a big makan session and merriment. I looked forward to these gatherings, not so much for the food, but for the warmth of being among so many relatives, young and old. The relatives were complicated, yes, but they were also family.

There will be more memories to share in later stories.

NOTE: This story is part of my reminiscence series which I've been adding to my blog once in a while. The series is meant to document things I remember about my younger and childhood days; my important memories, which may be pretty mundane to other people, to pass down to my son and daughter. Life as it used to be in the 1950s to 1970s, perhaps into the 1990s. But let's see how it goes...

My father's relatives

It would be a rare family indeed that doesn’t have extended relatives. Come to think of it, while I was an only child for much of my childhood until my sister, Judy, came along I’d still consider myself quite wealthy in terms of relatives, especially on my mother’s side. Her family was large and closely knit, and I had no shortage of uncles, aunts and cousins around me. But on my father’s side, it was a different picture altogether. There were only my paternal grandparents, Quah Teik Beng and Lim Poh Choo, and my aunt, Quah Liew See, with whom I had constant interaction.

The Japanese Occupation had a devastating effect on their lives. Grandfather Teik Beng couldn’t find permanent work after the war, and my father had to leave school in Standard VII to help support the family. He found his calling in banking, joining the Mercantile Bank (later to become the Hongkong & Shanghai Bank) in Beach Street and remaining there until his retirement. But because his father couldn’t earn a steady income, the responsibility of the family’s finances fell almost solely on him. They were staying in a rented room in Malay Street back then—a small, tight family unit.

It was from there that he later married my mother and moved in with her family at Seang Teik Road. That arrangement wasn’t uncommon in those post-war years. Meanwhile, my paternal grandparents and Aunt Liew See moved to another rented room in Green Hall. I still remember that old townhouse. It used to be some sort of association building: long and narrow, with the kitchen, bathroom and toilet  tucked way at the back, shared among all the occupants in the house. A sturdy wooden staircase hugged the side of the wall, leading to the first floor, which was partitioned into individual rooms for different families. My grandparents stayed in one of the rooms at the rear.

At night, the whole place was dimly lit with yellow incandescent bulbs as fluorescent lighting hadn't yet come into fashion. The corridors were dark, and there wasn’t much to do in the evenings but retire early or seek out cheap entertainment around town. My mother and I used to visit regularly, and I remember she and Aunt Liew See would occasionally take me across Light Street to the Supreme Court compound in the afternoons. The grassy field there, where the Francis Light statue and the Logan Memorial stood, was often overgrown and full of weeds. One particular weed made a popping sound when you put it in your mouth. Simple joys for a little boy. It was on that field that I first learnt to ride a bicycle. Unfortunately, I crashed my aunt’s bicycle more times than I care to admit. Sometimes we’d even walk to the Esplanade, which wasn’t far off.

It was at Green Hall that my grandfather died in 1963. I was in Standard Four and missed being in the annual Westlands School class photograph that year. He had been sick for some time, walking with the help of crutches after an accident left one of his legs permanently bent at the knee. He died in the wee hours of the morning, and someone came to Seang Tek Road to awaken my father. When we arrived, he had already gone, his body stiff, his leg still bent.

Later, a man from the coffin shop—no such person as a present-day funeral director then—came to move the body to the Toi Shan Convalescent Home in Hutton Lane, where the wake would be held. Everyone familiar with that place knew the name was misleading. There was no convalescing at all. The upstairs housed the dying destitute, and the ground floor was entirely a funeral parlour, divided into cubicles for wakes. Lighting was poor, and at night, after the prayer rituals, only a single bulb might light the corridor and partitions. Shadows were cast on the walls. The dead, still covered with only blankets, lay on wooden planks awaiting their coffins. As a young boy, I found the whole atmosphere terrifying.

One ritual involved us wiping my grandfather’s darkened face and symbolically feeding him some rice. Placing a few grains on his lips for his final journey. That ordeal of staring into the lifeless face of my grandfather, haunts me till this day. But I survived the funeral. The procession ended at the Thai cemetery in the Wat Pimbang On monastery in Green Lane, where his body was openly cremated on a stack of charcoal tended by an Indian caretaker. A few days later, we returned to collect the remaining bones, placed them in an urn and buried it in the grave on the temple grounds.

On the seventh night of his passing, we performed the customary vigil of waiting for his spirit to return one last time. My parents, grandmother and aunt gathered in the darkened Green Hall house. The lights were switched off and we laid down, pretending to sleep. I was so scared that I closed my eyes tightly and covered my ears with my pillow, trying to block out all sight and sound. Eventually, someone, probably my father or grandmother, threw a small metal object into the corridor to scare away the (bull head and horse face) spirit guardians of the underworld and announce the vigil’s end. Everyone got up rather relieved to inspect the offering which had been left open overnight: a plate of bee-koh (sweet glutinous rice cooked with coconut milk) left out for the soul. If the rice showed signs of having been bitten into, it meant the soul had returned and realised its earthly journey was over. But nothing had changed. Ritual complete, life slowly returned to normal, although we wore black and white clothes for a year to mark our mourning, before transitioning to blue and white for the remaining two years, a small square piece of black cloth always pinned to the left sleeve of the shirt. Thank goodness that tradition has fallen out of practice today. In my opinion, it was just to show how filial piety one can be.

My father with Lee Chee Jin, his relative
from Sarawak (left)

After Green Hall, my grandmother and aunt moved briefly to another room in Carnarvon Lane. Whether it was Green Hall or Carnarvon Lane, it was impossible for two ladies, one elderly and the other unmarried, to live alone in a rented accommodation without a man around. So it was decided that they come to live with my parents and maternal grandmother in Seang Tek Road. It was there that Grandmother Poh Choo passed away in 1967. For about two weeks, she had complained of being unable to move her bowels. An enema was arranged for her at home—an old-fashioned treatment even then—but it turned out to be the last straw. She never got out of bed again. A few days later, just four days before Chinese New Year, her death arrived. My maternal grandmother was unable to escape the Seang Tek Road house in time and so she, too, had to remain in the house for all the funeral rites. That year, there was no Chinese New Year for us. The neighbourhood still celebrated with prayers, joss sticks and firecrackers but our house was silent. No red sashes across the doorway, no angpows to receive. We just sat on the five-footway and watched the festivities from a distance. We donned black and white clothes again but thankfully, we switched to blue and white after the 49th day, before discarding all the mourning colours after a year had passed.

Apart from Aunt Liew See, my father had no other close relatives in Penang. He had some first cousins living in Love Lane, descended from my grandfather’s younger brother, Quah Teik Lim. His family included Quah Kong Chai and Ah Siew, and their sisters, Quah Siang Bok and Quah Siang Kheng. The ladies married off and moved off elsewhere, Kuala Lumpur and Sungai Petani, I believe. The men, after the death of my granduncle, relocated to Butterworth. Of his four cousins, only Siang Bok remains. I still keep in regular touch with two of my cousins, Poh Chuan and Siew Suan. They’re my closest surviving relatives on my father’s side. Grandmother Poh Choo was said to have family in Sarawak, but I’ve never been able to trace them. All I know is they once lived in Keyalang Park, Kuching. There was an uncle, Chee Jin. His daughter, Choon Chai, stayed in Penang for a year or two in the mid-1960s while training as a nurse.

More reminiscences about other relatives in later stories.

NOTE: This story is part of my reminiscence series which I've been adding to my blog once in a while. The series is meant to document things I remember about my younger and childhood days; my important memories, which may be pretty mundane to other people, to pass down to my son and daughter. Life as it used to be in the 1950s to 1970s, perhaps into the 1990s. But let's see how it goes...

Online chess revisited

Back in 1995, I found myself stumbling upon a fascinating new world of online chess. It was still the early days of Malaysia’s Internet connectivity, and the idea that you could play someone halfway across the world in real time was nothing short of thrilling. I wrote a story about this in one of my chess columns in December that year. A month later, in February 1996, I followed up with another story, this time about the Internet Chess Club (ICC) which had already captivated me to the point where I was logging in almost every day.

There was something almost magical about it. I was in Penang and find myself matched against someone in New York or Paris or Singapore, playing a real-time game on a text-based interface powered by Telnet. The chessboard was clunky, rendered in ASCII, but it worked. And for the time, it was revolutionary.

Blitz chess was already wildly popular then, but what really caught my imagination was the Fischer time control. You’d play with something like "3 15"—three minutes per player, plus 15 seconds added after every move. It was a strange new rhythm compared to our old-school five-minute blitzes. And since I’d registered as a member, my games were rated by the system. Every result tweaked your rating, right there and then. That little jolt of satisfaction (or disappointment) was addictive.

Handles, nicknames, anonymous opponents—it was a wild west of chess pseudonyms. My own handle was ssquah, naturally, while others used more cryptic tags. I even ran into an old friend from Singapore, FIDE Master Chia Chee Seng, who was an ICC administrator and helped ease me into the environment. By then, ICC had introduced paid memberships—US$49 a year, or half that for students—and while it might have seemed steep, the platform delivered. Even computers were showing up as opponents, ready to play you anytime.

The biggest usability leap came with the slics22f interface. Unlike Telnet, it gave you a graphical board and mouse-click functionality. I even demonstrated it at a local Internet Society meeting in USM. It felt like we were peeking into the future, and we were.

Fast forward nearly 30 years, and that future has well and truly arrived. Platforms like Chess.com and Lichess now host millions of users round the clock with sleek, polished interfaces, live broadcasts, integrated engines and on-demand lessons. I’m still amazed that I can log on today and watch grandmasters battle it out live while the system evaluates their every move and annotates in real time, often faster than I can process what's happening.

But perhaps what’s most striking isn’t just the playing. It’s how chess tournaments have caught up with the Internet too. These days, most over-the-board events are run using pairing software like Swiss Manager, which automates round-by-round matchups with mathematical precision. And once the pairings and results are generated, they’re seamlessly uploaded to Chess-Results.com, a global repository where you can track tournaments live from anywhere in the world. Whether it's a school-level event in Kuala Lumpur or an open in Reykjavik, results, pairings and standings are just a click away. The transparency and efficiency it offers are remarkable, and a far cry from handwritten pairing cards.

Of course, with progress comes new concerns. Online cheating has cast a shadow on the digital scene, and platforms now employ sophisticated anti-cheating tools: everything from statistical pattern detection to AI-based behavioural analysis. Some tournaments even require players to set up multiple webcams to ensure fair play. It’s a cat-and-mouse game, but the platforms are taking it seriously.

Even the way we consume chess has changed. In the past, if you missed a great game, that was that. Today, you have commentators like Daniel Naroditsky or Levy Rozman (aka GothamChess) explaining the key moments in colourful, engaging streams. YouTube have turned grandmasters into influencers. Hikaru Nakamura, once the enfant terrible of American chess, is now a global streaming star, toggling between bullet games and stock tips. It’s entertainment, education and sport all rolled into one.

And yet, as I look back at those old stories of mine, I realise that the core thrill hasn’t changed: that moment when you make your move and wait for your opponent’s reply, wherever they might be. Back then, it was ASCII boards and FTP downloads. Today, it’s touchscreen apps and cloud servers. But the chess is still eternal.

It’s tempting to feel nostalgic for the simplicity of those early Internet days. The dial-up sounds, the tiny online communities, the excitement of discovering something entirely new. But I also marvel at how far we’ve come. From ICC to Swiss Manager, from slics22f to Stockfish-assisted prep, from Telnet logins to mobile alerts saying, “Your opponent has made a move.” The game has grown in ways I never imagined.

Thirty years from now, someone else might look back and say, “Remember Chess.com? Remember Lichess? That was when online chess really took off.” And maybe, somewhere in their memory or search engine, they’ll find a trace of that curious Malaysian player who once logged in as ssquah and couldn’t believe his luck.