Tang Chik (冬至)

I spent this morning down at the Swee Cheok Tong, offering worship to our Kongsi deities in observance of Tang Chik (冬至), the Winter Solstice. I had assumed it would fall tomorrow, on the 22nd of December, but the calendar told me otherwise. As I drove into the city, the signs were already there: other Chinese clan houses along the way had their doors open as different communities carried out their own rituals.

Tang Chik marks the winter solstice, the point in the year when the day is shortest and the night longest. In traditional Chinese society, this was no ordinary date. In agrarian times, farmers would lay down their tools and return home, recognising that the agricultural year had reached a pause. Families gathered not to mark an ending, but a turning. Of course, we are no longer farmers here in the nanyang, but the significance of the day remains the same. The eating of koay ee symbolised the idea of growing a year older, not necessarily wiser, but certainly marked by time.

Unlike many traditional festivals tied to the lunar calendar, Tang Chik is governed by astronomy. It occurs when the sun reaches a specific point in its apparent path across the sky, the moment when Earth’s axial tilt places the sun at its lowest position in the Northern Hemisphere. This astronomical alignment produces the longest night of the year. In Chinese cosmology, Tang Chik is one of the 24 Solar Terms, fixed not by human convention but by the movement of the heavens.

This year, in 2025, the winter solstice occurs on the 21st of December, with the precise astronomical moment falling at 15:03 GMT. Converted to Malaysian time, which is eight hours ahead, this places the solstice at 11:03pm on the night of the 21st. On the surface, this would seem to justify observing Tang Chik on that same date.

However, I would argue that this conclusion is not entirely consistent with traditional Chinese timekeeping. In the classical Chinese luni-solar system, the transition from one day to the next does not occur at midnight, but at 11pm. Time is divided into twelve two-hour segments, each beginning on an odd hour. The hour which runs from 11pm to 1am marks the start of a new day.

Viewed through this traditional framework, a solstice occurring at 11:03pm would already fall into the following day. By that reckoning, the moment of Tang Chik in Malaysia actually belongs to the 22nd of December rather than the 21st. From a strictly astronomical standpoint, both interpretations may appear reasonable. Yet within the logic of traditional Chinese calendrical thinking, celebrating Tang Chik on the 22nd would be entirely consistent.

Because the Earth’s orbit and axial tilt follow a predictable rhythm, the winter solstice falls on nearly the same date each year, usually between the 21st and 22nd of December, and occasionally on the 23rd. This consistency is why Tang Chik remains one of the rare traditional observances that aligns neatly with the Gregorian calendar. The other, of course, is Cheng Beng.

Standing in the clan house this morning, surrounded by incense and the familiar faces of the Kongsi members, it struck me that Tang Chik is less about marking a moment in time than acknowledging a shift. The longest night has passed. The days will lengthen again, slowly and almost imperceptibly at first, but the turning has already begun.

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

The problem with most overseas travel is the unearthly hour at which one has to wake up, and our recent Nepal–India trip was no exception. We had to drag ourselves out of our warm beds at four in the morning so that our Grab driver could pick us up 45 minutes later, allowing us to reach Penang International Airport by 5.30am for our flight to Kathmandu via Bangkok. Having learnt our lesson from the May trip, we had our visa-on-arrival application forms properly completed this time, which spared the group any unnecessary delays. With all 38 of us accounted for, we were processed without fuss and soon whisked away in three hired coaches to our first stop: the Boudhanath Stupa, easily Kathmandu’s most recognisable landmark.

In a sense, we were continuing from where we had left off in May. This time, however, we climbed up onto the broad, whitewashed platform and joined the clockwise flow around the great hemispherical dome. Above us the familiar eyes gazed down, calm and unblinking, as they have for centuries.

Standing there again, the structure revealed itself more clearly than it had on our first visit. From close quarters, the stupa was no longer just an iconic silhouette but a carefully layered statement in stone and plaster. The massive dome rose from the platform with a quiet solidity, while above it the square tower bore the all-seeing eyes of the Buddha, watching in the four directions, neither stern nor indulgent, simply present. The spiral between each pair of eyes, so often mistaken for a nose, was the Nepali numeral for one, a reminder of unity and the single path. As we continued our slow circumambulation, the act itself became part of the meaning: one foot placed before the other, movement without hurry, thought gradually giving way to awareness. 

Indian musicians in the Patan Durbar Square

Returning to Boudhanath also made me aware of how differently a place can register the second time around. In May, there had been the rush of first impressions: the sheer scale of the stupa, the crowds, the sense of arrival. This time, there was more space to notice the murmured mantras, the rhythm of prayer wheels, the mix of monks, pilgrims and tourists moving together in an unspoken choreography. It felt less like ticking off a landmark and more like continuing with an ongoing conversation that had not really stopped since we last left. 

The picture of the Amitabha Buddha that eluded me
during my first visit here in May.

That sense of picking up on an unfinished conversation repeated itself over the next few days. At Patan Durbar Square, we found ourselves wandering through a dense and almost overwhelming concentration of courtyards, temples and palace buildings, their carved wooden struts and brick façades bearing the wear of centuries. Statues, shrines and doorways appeared at every turn, some grand and ceremonial, others small and easily missed, giving the impression of a place where history had accumulated rather than been carefully curated. Even the open square seemed layered, as if different eras were quietly coexisting in the same physical space. 

The Golden Temple offered a striking contrast. Tucked away behind a modest entrance, its scale was intimate, almost enclosed, yet alive with constant movement. Monks, devotees and visitors circulated through its gilded surfaces and narrow passages, prayer wheels turning, bells chiming, and offerings being made with practised ease. It felt less like a site to be admired from a distance and more like one to be absorbed from within, where ritual continued uninterrupted by the presence of onlookers. At Swayambhu Mahachaitya, rising above the Kathmandu Valley, we chose not to explore the temple itself this time. Instead, we drifted immediately to the souvenir stalls, picking out items we had noticed and mentally bookmarked during our last visit, as though even our shopping was a continuation rather than a diversion. 

Sunrise over Nagarkot

All these aside, the day ended with a long, winding drive up towards Nagarkot, about 30 kilometres east of Kathmandu. As our coaches climbed steadily, the city lights receded, the road grew darker and the air cooler. Perched at roughly 2,000 metres above sea level, Nagarkot has long been valued for its commanding position. Once a retreat for Nepalese royalty and earlier still a strategic lookout over the Kathmandu Valley, it is now best known for its Himalayan panoramas and its reputation as one of the most accessible places from which to watch the sunrise over the snow-capped peaks.

By the time we reached The Fort Resort, night had fully settled in. Set amid forested slopes and terraced gardens, the resort felt less like a conventional hotel than a quiet sanctuary. Its red-brick structures and carved wooden details echoed the architectural language of the Kathmandu Valley, standing apart from the newer buildings scattered along the ridge. Our arrival was muted rather than dramatic, shaped more by the cool mountain air and the soft plodding of our footsteps on a seemingly endless incline before reaching the warm glow of lights marking the hotel's entrance. After dinner, fatigue quickly overtook curiosity. We had, after all, been awake since four in the morning, and Nepal time lagged Malaysian time by more than two hours. Most of us turned in, content to leave whatever Nagarkot had to offer until morning.

That promise was kept at dawn. We rose early and gathered on the resort’s uppermost floor as the first light peeked above the horizon. Slowly, the shifting colours of the sky brought the surrounding hills into focus, followed by the distant Himalayan range emerging from the darkness. On clear days, we had been told, even Mount Everest can be glimpsed glimmering far away, and our tour guide had confidently predicted fine weather. So there we were, suitably layered against the cold, as the spectacle unfolded. The mountain range sharpened into view. Watching the light change over the mountains, it was easy to understand why Nagarkot has drawn people here for centuries. 

For those of us staying in the cottages, the experience felt especially removed from the routines of travel. Tucked among trees and gardens, they offered privacy and quiet without the inconveniences one might expect from an older mountain property. Even the Wi-Fi proved unexpectedly strong, a small modern reassurance in an otherwise timeless setting. 

By mid-morning, the spell of Nagarkot began to loosen its hold, and it was time to descend from the hills and return to Kathmandu. The drive back retraced the same winding roads in reverse, daylight now revealing villages and buildings, terraced fields and everyday life that had been hidden from us the night before. As we approached the city, the mountain air gradually gave way to the familiar density and noise of the valley.

We checked in for the night at the Baharai Resort. Unbeknown to us. this place was to become a comfortable pause between the calm of Nagarkot and the hectic days of travel that lay ahead. After dinner, fatigue briefly threatened to keep us in, but the urge to spend money won out. We made our way to Thamel, just round the corner from the hotel, and with that, the first bout of shopping began.....

Silver and bronze

Congratulations to our men’s and women’s rapid chess pairs at the 33rd SEA Games in Thailand. In the men’s FIDE rapid doubles event, GM Yeoh Li Tian and IM Poh Yu Tian advanced all the way to the Final to clinch the silver medal. They topped the table in the Preliminary rounds, overcame the Indonesian pair in a tense Semi-Final decided on tie-breaks, and eventually fell to Vietnam in the Final.

In the women’s doubles event, WFM Tan Li Ting and WIM Puteri Munajjah Az-Zahraa Azhar progressed to the Semi-Final, where they were eliminated by Vietnam. Despite the setback, their performance was sufficient to secure the bronze medal which marked a commendable result for the team.

Rob Reiner (1947-2025)

Normally, I am not too bothered about the goings-on of the entertainment world such as Hollywood, but to me, the obscure name Rob Reiner suddenly activated some long-dormant memory cells. Where had I heard that name before? As it turned out, after skimming through the news portals, he was the actor who played “Meathead” in the 1970s American television sitcom All In The Family. This was a series that genuinely captivated me. Unless I had something important to do, I would be glued to the television whenever an episode was shown on Malaysian TV. In those early days of television here, if you missed a programme, that was it — no repeats, no second chances. I would genuinely rue missing an episode, which says something about the impact the series had on me. All In The Family, along with Yes Minister and Yes, Prime Minister, left a lasting impression, though that is a story for another time.

That rediscovery of Rob Reiner led me to reflect on why his presence in All In The Family mattered so much. Michael Stivic, permanently christened “Meathead” by Archie Bunker, was not merely a convenient foil or a source of comic irritation. He was deliberately written as Archie’s ideological opposite: young, college-educated, anti-war, progressive, sceptical of religion and aligned with the feminist currents of the late 1960s and early 1970s. As Gloria Bunker’s husband, he was also permanently inside Archie’s home, ensuring there was no escape from the arguments.

Those arguments were the engine of the show. Through the relentless sparring between Archie and Meathead, All In The Family tackled issues that were still considered radioactive on American network television: racism and antisemitism, the Vietnam War, women’s liberation, atheism and the growing gulf between generations. These were not polite or neatly resolved discussions; they were loud, messy and frequently unfair. And that was precisely why they felt real.

What made Reiner’s performance especially effective was his willingness to lean into Meathead’s flaws. Michael was earnest and morally serious, but also self-righteous, smug and often blind to his own contradictions. He frequently had the moral high ground, but rarely the emotional intelligence to persuade Archie. Archie, for his part, was rooted in fear and habit, ignorant and often cruel, yet stubbornly human. In that balance, neither character was allowed the comfort of being wholly right.

When Reiner left the show in 1978, it marked the end of an era. He went on to become one of Hollywood’s most accomplished directors with films such as This Is Spinal Tap, Stand by Me, The Princess Bride, When Harry Met Sally… and A Few Good Men.

Looking back now, I realise that what kept me glued to the television all those years ago was not nostalgia alone. It was the sense that All In The Family was brave enough to let its characters collide without cushioning the impact. Archie Bunker and Meathead were not there to resolve America’s arguments, but to expose them. And in that cramped living room, with its battered armchairs and raised voices, television briefly grew up.

The afterword: Reiner and his wife, Michelle Singer, were found dead in their Los Angeles home on Sunday, apparently victims of a homicide. Their son, Nick Reiner, has been charged with the first-degree murder of his parents.

Misleading!

I have to admit that I had been taken in by the bold claim at least a year ago, having even bought it myself, but this has to be one of the most misleading advertising statements I’ve seen in a long time. A loaf of sliced bread is promoted as containing “100% Australian Oat,” except that the Australian oat component makes up just 0.25 per cent of the ingredients. So what, exactly, are the supposed benefits of including such a minuscule amount of Australian rolled oats in the bread?

At that level, it’s hard to see how the oats contribute anything of substance, whether nutritionally or in terms of taste and texture. They’re present in quantities too small to offer the fibre or health benefits usually associated with oats, and too insignificant to alter the character of the bread in any noticeable way. Their inclusion appears to serve little purpose beyond enabling the prominent claim on the packaging. A triumph of marketing spin over meaningful content, and a reminder of how carefully worded labels can create impressions that the ingredients themselves simply don’t support.

P.S. To avoid any confusion, this is also where “oat fibre” quietly enters the picture. Oat fibre is often a highly processed derivative added for bulk or texture, and it is not the same thing as rolled oats. Even when it originates from oats, it doesn’t carry the full nutritional profile or natural qualities people usually associate with eating oats in their whole or rolled form. So any attempt to blur the distinction between a trace amount of rolled oats and the presence of oat fibre only reinforces the sense that the headline claim is doing far more work than the ingredients themselves.

P.P.S. Let's do the mathematics. This loaf of bread weighs 400 grams and with only 0.25 per cent of the ingredients made up of Australian rolled oat, that means there is only (400x0.25%) or one gram of Australian rolled oat in that one loaf. And assuming that a standard loaf of that weight yields 12 slices of bread, that means that each slice contains only 0.083 gram of Australian rolled oat.

Rare local loss

It’s not often that I see Penang’s up-and-coming International Master Poh Yu Tian lose to another local player, but that’s exactly what happened today in this year’s Penang Closed Chess Tournament. Granted, his opponent, FIDE Master Wong Yinn Long (pictured), is no pushover, but games between these two have almost invariably drifted towards draws. This time was different.

Yu Tian seemed slightly out of sorts from the outset. As early as move eight - remarkably shallow territory for a player of his calibre - he made an inaccuracy in the opening, and it was very unlike him. That small slip allowed Yinn Long to impose a structural weakness, saddling White with compromised pawns and, more importantly, a long-term problem that never quite went away. From there, Black played with admirable patience, gradually tightening the screws before taking over completely in the later stages.

Here is the game, with a few brief observations along the way.

[UTCDate "2025.12.14"]
[UTCTime "02:04:10"]
[Event "Penang Closed Chess Tournament 2025"]
[Date "2025.12.13"]
[Round "5"]
[White "IM Poh, Yu Tian"]
[Black "FM Wong, Yinn Long"]
[Result "0-1"]
[Board "1"]

1.e4 c5 2.Nf3 g6 3.d4 cxd4 4.Nxd4 Nc6 5.c4 Bg7 6.Be3 Qb6 7.Nb3 Qd8 8.Nc3 Bxc3+ 9.bxc3 Nf6 10.f3 d6 11.Bh6 Rg8 12.Bg5 Nd7 13.Be2 b6 14.O-O Bb7 15.Qe1 f6 16.Be3 Nce5 17.f4 Nf7 18.Bf3 e5 19.Rd1 Qe7 20.g3 Qe6 21.Qe2 Rc8 22.Rd5 Bxd5 23.cxd5 Qe7 24.c4 Kf8 25.Bg4 Kg7 26.Be6 Rc7 27.fxe5 dxe5 28.g4 Rf8 29.Bxf7 Rxf7 30.h4 Qb4 31.Rc1 Rf8 32.Bd2 Qd6 33.Be3 Rfc8 34.Kg2 Qb4 35.Nd2 Qd6 36.Nb3 a5 37.c5 bxc5 38.Nxa5 c4 (See diagram) 39.Nc6 Rxc6 40.dxc6 Qxc6 41.Qf3 c3 42.Rc2 Qa4 43.Rf2 c2 44.Bc1 Qxa2 45.g5 Qe6 46.h5 fxg5 47.hxg6 hxg6 48.Qg3 g4 49.Qe3 Rf8 50.Rxc2 Rh8 51.Rf2 Nf6 52.Qa7+ Qd7 53.Qxd7+ Nxd7 54.Bb2 Re8 55.Rc2 Nf6 56.Kg3 Nxe4+ 57.Kxg4 Nd6 58.Rc6 Nf7 59.Kf3 Rb8 60.Bc3 Ng5+ 61.Kg4 Nf7 62.Kf3 Re8 63.Ke4 Re7 64.Bb4 Ng5+ 65.Kd5 Re8 66.Bc3 Nf7 67.Ke4 Kh6 68.Rc7 Ng5+ 69.Ke3 Kh5 70.Rc5 Nf7 71.Rc7 Nd6 72.Rc5 Kg4 73.Rd5 Re6 74.Rd1 g5 75.Rg1+ Kf5 76.Bb4 Nf7 77.Rf1+ Kg6 78.Bc5 Rf6 79.Rg1 Rf4 80.Be7 Kf5 81.Rh1 g4 82.Rh5+ Ke6 83.Bc5 Kd5 84.Be7 Rf3+ 85.Ke2 Ke4 86.Rh7 g3 87.Bh4 Nd6 88.Be7 Nf5 89.Bc5 Rc3 90.Bb6 Rc2+ 91.Ke1 Rb2 92.Bc5 Rb5 93.Ba7 Rb1+ 94.Ke2 g2  0-1

A well-earned win for Yinn Long, who capitalised ruthlessly on an early structural concession and never let go. For Yu Tian, this was one of those rare off-days where a small early lapse snowballed into something much larger. For the rest of us, it was an instructive reminder of how unforgiving chess can be at this level.

The Beatles Anthology collection updated!

While I was away on holiday, the updated The Beatles Anthology Collection was released by Apple Corps Ltd. It now includes a brand-new volume: Anthology 4. The collection now spans four volumes: the original three Anthology albums from the 1990s newly remastered by Giles Martin, plus Anthology 4 which was curated by Martin himself. 

Anthology 4 includes 13 previously-unreleased demos and session recordings (dating mostly from 1963–1969), alongside other rare outtakes, alternate takes and resurrected versions of two of the Anthology-era reunion tracks, Free As A Bird and Real Love. both newly remixed in 2025 by Jeff Lynne using “de-mixed” John Lennon vocals.

The new Anthology Collection was released on 21 November 2025 as a deluxe box set (can choose either 12 pieces of 180g vinyl or eight compact discs) as well as digital/streaming editions. Altogether, 191 tracks of studio outtakes, demos, live performances, broadcasts and previously hard-to-find recordings that form the most comprehensive and carefully restored archival release of the Beatles’ material to date.

The upgraded mixes and remastering bring out far more of the original studio ambience (mic bleed, tape warmth, room tone) and project a more vivid sense of the environment in which many of the Beatles’ classic tracks were born. In that sense, for anyone with a capable hi-fi system, it’s a rare chance to hear the band’s creative process in new clarity and depth.

#beatles #beatlesanthology

Till next year

We came home just in time to join our former bank colleagues for a meal last Tuesday. Our final regular meal meet-ups on the mainland are getting more popular as this time around, we managed to rope in 20 people. This will be our final get-together for 2025, and everyone is definitely looking forward to the next year to restart the camaraderie sessions.

Seated: Seak Chin, Pak Chun, Kay Liang, Heng Boo, Hiong Wah, myself and Saw See; standing: Kok Hun, Swee Phew, Hi Keng, Seong Lye, Khye Wai, Michael, Chong Chia, Fook Chin, Kok Kheong, Hock Seng, Soon Huat, Han Ming and Yuen Chee.

Nepal-India interlude

So finally, we’ve returned home from a 17-day jaunt through Nepal and northern India. It was a journey that carried us along the Buddhist pilgrimage trail and then onward to some of India’s most famous heritage sites, the sort of places I had long read about but never quite imagined visiting in a single sweep. We moved from the bustle of Kathmandu to the chill of Nagarkot, then down the plains to Lumbini, Shravasti and Kushinagar, before looping through Rajgir and Bodhgaya and ending with the more familiar tourist circuit of Varanasi, Agra, Jaipur and Delhi. 

For the pilgrimage part of the trip, we stood at the very spots where the Buddha was born — and I felt especially privileged and emotional to have visited it twice within a year — and where he attained enlightenment, then walked the grounds where he delivered his first sermon. We also made our way to the places associated with his life, his passing into parinibbāna and his cremation. Each site made more meaningful by the slow rhythm of travel and the shared sense of purpose among the group.

The heritage section of the tour felt like stepping into another story altogether. We found ourselves gazing at the perfect symmetry of the Taj Mahal in Agra, wandering through the great Amber Fort in Jaipur and looking up at the centuries-old Qutub Minar in Delhi. Much of the time though, we were on the move. Long stretches in bus coaches and a seven-hour train ride from Varanasi to Agra. 

Travel days blurred into one another, but there were moments that stood out. One morning, before sunrise, we boarded a boat for a dawn cruise on the Ganges. The river was already alive with activity. We saw cremations taking place along the ghats, the smoke curling into the sky, and further downstream, Hindus stepping into the cold water to perform their ritual cleansing. 

At some point I hope to write more fully about our experiences, but for now I should say that the hotels were generally very good, with only one or two that were less than ideal. Still, each added its own stamp on the journey. 

We were careful with our meals, eating mostly in hotels or well-established restaurants, keeping an eye out for anything that might upset the stomach, and guarding our drinking water like treasure. Before we left, we’d dutifully gone for our influenza, typhoid and hepatitis jabs, so at least we had some protection. Even so, we weren’t spared entirely. Somewhere along the way, the coughs began. It turned into a chorus because it wasn’t only us but almost everyone on the bus. The only people who seemed completely unaffected were the local guides and drivers, who moved through the dust and pollution unbothered. They rarely wore masks and breathed in the city smog as though it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

Still, despite the coughs and the long hours on the road, it was a marvellous journey. One of those trips that stays with you long after the suitcases have been unpacked and the laundry sorted, and already I find myself wanting to shape the memories into something more permanent on this blog.

Casto Abundo (1950-2025)

Casto Abundo was one of those people whose presence in chess felt so constant that one somehow assumed he would always be there, quietly keeping the game running. To many he was Casto, but to his friends he was simply Toti, and in the Philippines and across Asia that name carried weight. I first came to know him in the 1970s, when the Asian chess scene was still finding its feet and characters like him gave the region its early momentum. Years later, during his time as FIDE’s executive director, he surprised me with a small but meaningful gesture: an invitation to write a few stories for the FIDE newsletter. For someone like me, scribbling away in Malaysia, it felt like a doorway into a much larger world. We corresponded for a while before life pulled us in different directions.

Picture from World Chess Federation, FIDE

Toti’s career was enormous in scope. Over the past 50 years he was everywhere in world chess as an arbiter, organiser and administrator. He was one of those rare people who could move between all three roles with ease. He had been a trusted colleague of Florencio Campomanes and served FIDE in positions that demanded both competence and diplomacy: FIDE General Secretary from 1988 to 1990, and later FIDE Executive Director from 1994 to 1998. Even after Campo stepped away from the spotlight, Toti stayed on and anchored himself within FIDE as a member of the Rules Commission and the Qualification Commission, and eventually as Executive Director of the Asian Chess Federation. 

As an arbiter, he stood on some of the biggest stages. He was the Chief Arbiter of the 2000 World Championship Match and the 2001 World Cup, and one of the organisers of the 1992 Chess Olympiad. He was also a committed FIDE Arbiter Lecturer, patiently shaping new generations of arbiters even as his own health began to falter in later years. What stood out was his sense of duty. Even after bouts of ill health, he never really slowed down. Right up to the end he continued organising and conducting courses; in fact, I reconnected with him only in the middle of last year after the Eastern Asia Youth Chess Championship event in Penang, when I joined his online international organisers’ workshop. Hearing his voice again after so many years was strangely comforting. It was the same calm, authoritative tone I remembered from decades before.

People sometimes forget that Toti was also a strong chessplayer in his own right. He was rated 2175 at the time of his passing, meaning he approached the game not only from the administrative side but from a deep personal understanding of its competitive core. That combination of player, arbiter, organiser, historian and administrator was what made him so valuable. Whenever Asian federations needed help with rating or title matters, or when organisers sought guidance, it was Toti who provided the clarity and the path forward.

His passing at the age of 75 leaves a gap that will be felt far beyond the Philippines. Asian chess, in particular, has lost one of its great stewards and the many FIDE commissions and committees he served will feel the absence of his experience and quiet authority. For those of us who crossed paths with him over the years, whether briefly or over decades, the loss is personal too. I’m glad to have known Toti, even in small ways, across the long arc of his work in the game.

This endless road

From schooldays, we were taught the familiar picture: the planets revolve around a stationary Sun, following orbits that are technically elliptical but, for most of them, close enough to circular. The moons, in turn, circle their parent planets. It was a simple, elegant model and for a long time, many of us assumed the entire solar system sat more or less fixed in the sky, unmoving except for the planets tracing their slow, predictable paths around the Sun.

Only much later, over the past three decades or so, did I begin to appreciate that this picture is incomplete. From the perspective of Earth, we look stationary except for our daily rotation that gives us day and night. The other planets spin too, each in their own way, and because everything seems regular and orderly, it’s easy to imagine the whole system as a stable “clockwork” floating in place.

But in reality, the solar system itself is on the move. The Sun and its planets are orbiting the centre of the Milky Way, completing one galactic circuit roughly every 230 million years. Once you take this into account, a very different image emerges: the planets are not moving in flat circles, but in long, elegant corkscrew paths as they follow the Sun on its galactic journey.

This can be a difficult concept to picture, so I was very happy to come across a computer-generated simulation by amateur astronomer Tony Dunn. His visualisation, covering a hypothetical 20-year period from a vantage point more than 50 astronomical units away, shows the sweeping arcs of Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto, while the inner planets appear as tight, rapid spirals so quick that labelling them clearly becomes impossible. Still, one can roughly identify them: grey for Mercury, light yellow for Venus, light blue for Earth and orange for Mars.

And all of this is happening at astonishing speeds. Our solar system races through the galaxy at about 230 kilometres per second or around 830,000 kilometres per hour. Meanwhile, the Milky Way itself is moving through the universe at an estimated 2.3 million kilometres per hour. As for the centre of the universe, no one knows where that might be, or whether such a centre even exists in any meaningful way.

What we do know is this: we are not standing still in space. Far from it. We are passengers on a vast journey, carried through the galaxy without ever sensing the motion. And this, in its own quiet way, echoes the Buddha’s reminder that nothing in existence is ever fixed. All things arise, change and pass away. Our lives unfold in the same manner: we board the bus of life, ride for a time and eventually step off, while new passengers climb aboard. The bus keeps moving, just as the universe keeps turning, indifferent to who comes and goes.

To reflect on this is to see the nature of samsara laid bare. A constant movement, a constant becoming. It is humbling, but also gently liberating. In a cosmos that never stops, the only true stillness is the one we cultivate within, moment by moment, as we travel together on this endless road.

Letting go

Today marks three months since Saw See took the plunge to ordain as a temporary sayalay at the Nandaka Vihara meditation society. I’m immensely proud of her. Not many ladies would willingly part with their hair, even for a short period, and I must admit that my wife was very brave indeed. She had been thinking about this for many years but never quite felt ready for such a transformation. When she finally decided, I knew I had to stand beside her and give her my wholehearted support. After all, it was only for eight days, and her hair would grow back soon enough.

The past few months brought their own small challenges. As I had warned her, her silver and grey patches stood out more conspicuously as they grew, but she took it all in her stride. When she went outdoors for programmes, she often wore a headscarf, and naturally, she attracted curious glances. At first, I sensed her discomfort — people seemed to look at her as if she were recovering from some illness — but she soon grew accustomed to it.

I wouldn’t be writing this if Saw See herself had not shared her experience on Facebook. Now that she’s made it public, I might as well share it here too.

*To Be or Not to Be… a Sayalay*

“To be or not to be.”

This question has lingered in my mind for many years, especially whenever Nandaka Vihara announced its temporary ordination programme for adults.

To be ordained as a temporary Sayalay, even just once in my lifetime has always been on my wish list. Yet, letting go of my hair remained my biggest challenge (I must admit, vanity still had its hold on me!).

Curious, I once asked Bhante Dhammasubho, “Why should a layperson ordain at least once in their life?”

Bhante’s reply was both simple and profound: “To be the daughter or son of the Buddha.”

(Buddhaputta – son of the Buddha; Buddhadhītā – daughter of the Buddha*)

Later, I posed the same question to Bhante Mahanama, who wisely said, “To plant the seed of Dhamma for future lives.”

These two answers deeply touched my heart and gave me the courage to finally “lose my hair.”

I also remembered Bhante Revata’s gentle encouragement a few years ago. When I told him I had been thinking about ordaining for years, he smiled and said, “You just need a little push.” This time, I gave myself that big push and registered for the temporary ordination programme held from 30 August to 7 September 2025 at Nandaka Vihara.

Becoming a temporary Sayalay was a dream come true, truly the best gift I could ever give myself. The peace and tranquillity of the monastic life were beyond words. The morning and evening chantings, ovāda from the Chief Abbot, and Dhamma talks by Bhante Revata, Bhante Panadipa, Bhante Upasanta, and Bhante Punnacara filled each day with mindfulness and joy.

The piṇḍapāta (alms round) with the Sangha and fellow Sayalays was especially humbling, a sacred moment of walking in the footsteps of the Buddha. My meditation interview with Bhante Mahanama also helped deepen my practice and understanding.

I am deeply grateful to Bhante Dhammasubho and all the venerable teachers for their guidance and kindness. This journey has strengthened my faith in the Buddha, the Dhamma, and the Sangha. May I be blessed with the opportunity to ordain again in the near future.

I share all my merits with the Devas, the Sangha, my teachers, my mother, siblings, husband, children, and everyone who made this ordination possible for me.

I dedicate these merits to all beings, and to my departed relatives and friends, especially my beloved father. May they rejoice in these accumulated merits, be reborn in higher realms, and attain Nibbāna in the shortest possible time.

May all beings be well and happy wherever they may be.