Four-way street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three music icons...gone

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nepal 2025, Day Four (III: Kapilvastu)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyoto 2024, Day 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The middle-east question

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Israel attacked on the 61st day.

Life lessons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nepal 2025, Day Four (II: Mahavana forest)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All for a sticker

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

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

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

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

Just weeks away...

I headed over to KOMTAR Level 31 for a press conference this morning on the upcoming 23rd ASEAN+ Age-Group Chess Championships. This is shaping up to be quite a major chess event not just for Penang, but for Malaysia as a whole, especially since it coincides with Malaysia’s turn at chairing ASEAN in 2025. I’ve written about this championship before, but no harm repeating the essentials again.

The tournament will take place on 01-11 July 2025, and it’s being organised by the Penang Chess Association on behalf of the Malaysian Chess Federation and the ASEAN Chess Confederation at the Berjaya Penang Hotel along Burmah Road, George Town. Its ballroom is large enough to accommodate at least 500 players. As of today, around 325 players have already registered, but with the closing date extended to the 21st of this month, we’re quietly optimistic that we might pass the 400 mark. And that’s not counting the parents and coaches who’ll be travelling with the players.

Why the name ASEAN-plus? Quite straightforward, actually. Since 2007, entries from ASEAN’s Dialogue Partners have also been accepted. This includes Australia, China, Hong Kong, Macau, India, Japan, New Zealand, Russia, South Korea, and the United States. Oddly enough, Taiwan and Mongolia are not on that list. Perhaps it’s time to include them too for the tournament, in the spirit of inclusivity? On a related note, I heard today that the President of the Mongolian Chess Federation, Gombojav Zandanshatar, has just been elected as the country’s Prime Minister. What better time to congratulate him and maybe invite Mongolia too? Their players were in Penang last year for the Eastern Asia Youth Championship. No reason they shouldn’t return. The bigger, the better; the more, the merrier.

At the press conference, Wong Hon Wai, Penang State EXCO for Tourism and Creative Economy, spoke about the significance of hosting this event. He said it wasn’t just about chess competition. It was also about regional friendship and cultural understanding. Hosting it here in Penang reflects Malaysia’s commitment to strengthening ASEAN cooperation. And as a UNESCO World Heritage City, Penang offers more than just chess. There’s heritage, art, food, and nature to enjoy. And for those who care about such things, it’s also durian season. 

“Chess is more than a game,” Wong said. “It’s a form of intellectual and cultural exchange. We hope families, students and even seniors will take part and discover the joy of chess. We want our guests to experience not just the tournament, but Penang itself. Come for the chess, stay for the culture.”

From its humble beginnings in Vung Tau City, Vietnam, in 2000, the ASEAN+ Age-Group Chess Championships has grown into a major youth and senior event in this part of the world. Today, it features age categories from Under-6 all the way up to Under-20. And because of the “Chess For All” philosophy, there are also the Seniors 50+ and Seniors 65+ sections. I must admit I’m being gently pressured to play in the 65+ category. I haven’t touched a standard chess game in years, and frankly, my form is as rusty as an old bishop in a drawer. I’ve returned most of my chess knowledge back to the community, so to speak.

The press conference was also attended by Ashwin Gunasekeran (CEO, Penang Convention & Exhibition Bureau), Harry Chai (Director, Penang State Sports Council), See Swee Sie (Vice-President, Malaysian Chess Federation and President, Penang Chess Association), Amran Taib (General Manager, Berjaya Penang Hotel) and Mohamed Zainulalawdin (Senior HR Manager, Inari Amertron). Representing the Penang Chess Association were Ooi Gim Ewe, Steven Hoh, Tan Eng Seong and myself.

Postscript: This 23rd ASEAN+ age-group chess championships in Penang will be the third event in Malaysia. The first time was back in 2001 when Kuala Lumpur was the venue. Then in 2017 after an absence of 16 years, the Pahang Chess Association hosted the 18th championships in Kuantan. So after another eight years, the event is back on Malaysian shores.

This shall be the backdrop that hangs in the ballroom for the duration of the championships. Special permission was obtained from the artist, Ernest Zacharevic, to use his iconic image. It’s unmistakably Penang—something we hope will catch the eye of the foreign and even outstation participants. No doubt some of them will want to snap a few photos with it as a visual keepsake to take home.

Nepal 2025, Day Four (I: Mayadevi temple)

The Mayadevi Temple in the Lumbini Gardens was the first place that we visited on our pilgrimage to Lumbini. This temple was a dedication to Queen Mayadevi, who was the birth mother of Siddhartha. It was here, over 2,600 years ago, that she gave birth to the baby who would one day become the Buddha.

According to the ancient texts, Queen Mayadevi was on her way to her parental home in Devadaha when she stopped to rest in the Lumbini Garden. The garden must have been beautiful even then, full of blooming sal trees and a peaceful atmosphere. As she stood under one particular sal tree, reaching up to grasp a branch for support, she gave birth while standing upright. That child was Siddhartha Gautama.

But the story of the Buddha begins even earlier, with Queen Mayadevi’s dream. It is said that one night she dreamt of a white elephant descending from the heavens and entering her side, marking the moment of conception. This dream was interpreted by court astrologers as a sign of an extraordinary birth to come. 

After Siddhartha’s birth, it is said that he took seven steps immediately, declaring that this would be his final birth. His mother, however, did not live long to see him grow. Queen Mayadevi passed away just seven days later, and her sister, Mahāpajāpatī Gotamī, then raised Siddhartha as her own. 

As we approached the temple complex, we were greeted by a landscape dotted with ancient ruins, flowering trees and streams of pilgrims. The modern white temple structure is modest in size but stands over the ruins of earlier shrines, with a glass-covered viewing area inside that lets visitors see the marker stone which pinpoints the exact spot where the Buddha was born.

Before we stepped into the Mayadevi Temple itself, something rather odd happened. Back in Penang, I’d made sure all my camera batteries were fully charged: the main one, plus two spares. I didn’t want to miss a single photo opportunity. But as we approached the temple grounds, my camera suddenly displayed a flashing “battery depleted” warning. Puzzled, I stopped to change it. But when I slotted in my first spare, the same thing happened: it was dead. Then the second spare: also completely flat. All three batteries, fully charged in Penang, now refusing to cooperate.

I didn’t quite know what to make of it. It was unexplainable. Could it have been some kind of technical glitch? Or was there something else at work here, something unseen that didn’t quite welcome the idea of photographs being taken? A curious thought crossed my mind: perhaps it was the temple’s way of telling me to put the camera down and be present. And perhaps it wasn’t entirely coincidental, especially considering what happened next.

We stepped into the temple and discovered that no photography was allowed within its walls, despite my having paid a small camera fee just to bring in my equipment! Three or four guards stood around, eyeing us suspiciously in case anyone was tempted to break the rule. 

Inside, the atmosphere was solemn and still. Led by Bhante Dhammasubho, our group walked quietly around the main ruins three times, a mindful circumambulation in honour of the Buddha’s birth. Then, settling into a corner of the building, we knelt or sat cross-legged as Bhante led a short Pali chanting session. Emotions ran high. For some among us, the weight of the moment became too much to hold in. Eyes filled with tears. We weren’t just visitors ticking off another historical site. This was something deeper. A sacred space where the Dhamma had once taken root, and where its resonance could still be felt.

Just outside the temple were the Asoka Pillar and the Puskarini pond where Queen Mayadevi bathed before going into labour. The waters of the pond was still and an emerald green. The Asoka Pillar is a weathered stone column inscribed with a script recording Emperor Asoka’s visit to Lumbini in the third century BC, during which he declared the location as the Buddha’s birthplace and exempted the village from taxes. 

To one side of the temple, standing tall and serene, was the main Bodhi tree, sometimes known as the Buddha Peepal Brichha. Its branches stretched wide and its roots hugged the earth firmly, as though bearing witness to countless generations of seekers. A small shrine nestled within its massive trunk, indicated by a red conical marker draped with a white cloth. A row of monks sat nearby under its shade.

Our group, however, did not settle beneath this main tree. Instead, we found a quieter spot just next to it. This was another Bodhi tree which was less crowded, yet equally sacred in spirit. We sat for about 15 to 20 minutes in meditation and quiet contemplation. No words were exchanged. Just listening to the rustling of leaves, the gentle flutter of prayer flags and the inner stillness that slowly began to settle within.

Before we left the Lumbini Gardens, we made a final stop at the nearby Rajakiya Buddha Vihar, built in 1956. Its architecture reflected traditional Nepali design, with a Dhamma hall housing elegant Buddha statues and a marble replica of the Nativity sculpture which depicted Queen Mayadevi standing beneath a sal tree, one hand grasping a branch above her as she gave birth to Prince Siddhartha from her side. Both celestial and human attendants surrounded her. 

Being in Lumbini, at the very place where the Buddha entered this world, was a deeply humbling experience. I often ask myself: how much do I really know about my own religion? And the truth is, not as much as I’d like to think. Most of what I’ve absorbed over the years has come from the retelling of popular stories, from books, paintings and simplified versions of the Buddha’s life, or from films like Little Buddha that stirred the imagination but perhaps only skimmed the surface. They planted the seeds of curiosity, yes, but it’s only now, walking this land, that those seeds feel like they’re beginning to take root.

To stand in Lumbini, where Siddhartha Gautama was born more than 2,500 years ago, was to make the shift from knowing something in theory to feeling it in one’s bones. The atmosphere, the reverence, the quiet dignity of the place.... We had walked around the ruins inside the Mayadevi Temple, sat beneath the great bodhi tree and felt the hush of centuries settle in around us. This wasn’t merely sightseeing. 

Later, we would make our way to Kapilvastu, to the archaeological remains of the Buddha’s family palace, the very place where he spent his early life as a prince. I just can't help but imagine the young Siddhartha walking those very paths, still unaware of the journey that awaited him. That connection between past and present, it's mind-blowing as I write all this down. This pilgrimage brings Buddha's story closer to home, and to consider where we might go from here.

Reflection

I can’t say I’m particularly happy with my chess results these days. But to be honest, it’s been like this for the better part of a decade. Gone are the days when I played with real competitive fire. These days, I just want to enjoy a good game, whether win or lose. Unfortunately, it’s been more of the latter. The losses seem to pile up a bit more than I’d like.

It used to be, say 15 or 20 years ago, that when my friends and I joined chess tournaments, we’d always look forward to being paired against school kids. They were, let’s be honest, easy pickings back then. It was the adult players we had to watch out for. But not anymore. These days, the school kids are tough. Really tough. With all the structured coaching they’re getting and parents willing to fork out serious money for their children’s chess development, these boys and girls have become razor sharp. More often than not, I find myself on the losing end against them.

Ironically, it's now the "average Joe" adult players that I find easier to deal with. Maybe it’s because there’s less pressure when we’re not chasing medals or podium finishes. My mindset now is simple: if I win, great; if I lose, no big deal — on to the next round.

That was pretty much the attitude when our OFA Mxyzptlk team took part in the USM open team chess tournament yesterday. Of course, we tried our best every round, but if we walked away with a prize, that would just be a bonus. We’d fielded two teams — OFA Myrmidons and OFA Mxyzptlk — and naturally, there was always a chance our teams might face each other at some point, especially if they were on equal match points. Sure enough, it happened in the fourth round.

Ideally, we’d rather not be playing each other, but boh huat lah. That’s the way the draw goes. Still, there was a bright side. We took the chance to snap a photo of both teams, seated across from one another, hands outstretched for the pre-match handshake. A lovely moment of camaraderie and good fun, and perhaps the only kind of record I’ll be setting these days, as I slowly slide into cheerful chess obscurity!

As a final thought to this jotting. I met three ex-colleagues from my days with Ban Hin Lee Bank. I had more-or-less expected to find Wong Teik Aun playing in the tournament, but to find Vincent Ng and Sia Koon Liong participating as well was more of a surprise. Vincent, especially. He is still a pilot with Singapore Airline but he found time to return to his hometown for this event. Good for him!

Mxyzptlk

Time for a short chess break today. I'm off to the University of Science Malaysia to join my chess friends from The Old Frees' Association at a competition, namely, the USM Bridge and Chess Club's 31st edition of their USM open team chess championship. 

I remember that it was in the 1990s when the Penang Chess Association received a request from the USM Bridge and Chess Club for assistance in launching their first ever open chess competition. Dr Choong Sim Poey was the President then, and I was in my second stint as the Secretary. We provided the technical support and helped loan them the usual chess equipment. This went on for some years until the USM chess club was confident enough to stand on their own. Much later in the 2000s, I learnt that my old classmate from Penang Free School, Prof Dr Teoh Siang Guan, had become the USM chess club's Adviser, and we quickly reconnected after decades.

Wish us luck as my team, OFA Mxyzptlk, try our best not to finish in the second half of the standings! Mxyzptlk is, of course, the name of one of Superman's nemesis, a mischievous imp from the fifth dimension! Every now and then, he would appear and hound Superman, who would then try all means to trick the imp into saying his name backword. Mxyzptlk is impossible to pronounce but it goes something like mix-yez-pittle-ik. That's how I've always remembered it. I wonder how many of today's young fans of this American comic book hero have heard of this character. Older ones may, though....

Nepal 2025, Day Three

It was time for us — the group from Nandaka Vihara — to take our leave of the Dhammadāyāda Meditation Centre and continue our journey through Nepal. Earlier that morning, we had paid another visit to Sayadawgyi Bhaddanta Āciṇṇa. It was the morning puja, and we were there to offer him his breakfast and to gather around for a group photo. We knew that moments like these were precious. Who could say when, or if, we’d ever have the chance to see him again? Would we ever return to this secluded mountain retreat in Phasku, so far removed from our lives in Penang?

We also took the opportunity to say our goodbyes to Bhante Candima, the Chief Abbot of Dhammadāyāda. Ever gracious, he kindly led us up to the Sīma Hall, a wide open space with a tall statue of the Walking Buddha that stood in quiet majesty, gazing out across the vast, rugged landscape that surrounded the monastery. It was a moment of silent reflection. A fitting sending-off for us.

Of course, for those who had come up to Phasku by helicopter — the lucky few — the return journey would be a different experience. They now had to join the rest of us in the two 4WD vehicles for the bumpy ride down the mountain and back to Kathmandu. We had, over the past 24 hours, been regaling them with tales of our adventure coming up: the winding road, the dirt tracks, the pitch-black darkness, the bumping and jolting of the car and the thrill of not knowing exactly where we were going. All good fun, we had told them. But that journey was in the dark. Now we all would be doing it in broad daylight. Would it still feel like an adventure? Or would seeing everything take away some of the mystery?

So there we were, nine of us split between the two 4WDs, rumbling our way downhill, jostling about in our seats as the vehicles bumped over stone-paved dirt tracks and swerved around eroded ruts. The excitement of the unknown was gone, replaced by the full visibility of what lay ahead. Perhaps that made it less thrilling. Still, it was far from dull. At least now we could admire the mountain scenery in broad daylight.

After about 90 minutes, we emerged from the rough stretch and hit proper roads again. A collective sigh of relief followed. But it wasn’t quite over yet. As we entered Kathmandu’s outskirts, we had to tackle that final ordeal — the bone-jarring, dust-choked stretch of roadworks leading up to the city and the airport. Endless construction, potholes, choking air. It’s hard to imagine how people put up with it every day.

Still, we reached Tribhuvan International Airport in good time, checked in without fuss and boarded our short flight to Lumbini. We would fly by Buddha Air, an interesting name for an airline, using their propellor-driven ATR planes. By the time we touched down in this sacred town, birthplace of the Buddha, the light was already beginning to fade.

Our guide, who had joined us in Kathmandu, whisked us off to our accommodation at the Buddha Maya Gardens Hotel. Comfort and privacy at last. Dinner was ready and waiting, despite our late arrival. A simple fare of Nepalese food, but most welcome after such a long day. We sat down to eat, weary but feeling content. The real pilgrimage in Lumbini, we knew, would begin on Day Four.