A complete unknown

Recently, I sat down to watch A Complete Unknown and found myself absorbed. It wasn’t just the music or the 1960s atmosphere that caught me, but how uncannily Timothée Chalamet seemed to become Bob Dylan. The lean frame, the half-mumbled defiance, the distant look of someone who’s already somewhere else in his mind. All of it rang true. Maybe make-up and costume had a hand in it, but there was something more than imitation going on. Chalamet captured that strange, inward energy that Dylan had in those years when he broke away from everyone’s expectations and remade himself.

But who exactly is this Timothée Chalamet, the young man behind the curly hair and the harmonica? I remembered seeing him before in The King on Netflix, playing Henry V, another restless young man thrust unwillingly into greatness. It seems to be his thing: slipping into the skin of real people on the edge of transformation, feeling their uncertainty and ambition as though it were his own.

Born in 1995 in New York City, Chalamet grew up surrounded by the performing arts. His mother had danced on Broadway and he went to LaGuardia High School, the same institution that shaped so many performers who balance talent with a touch of intensity. After a few minor roles, his moment came in 2017 with Call Me by Your Name in which he gave a performance that felt spontaneous and transparent. That film established his screen identity as emotionally open, a little fragile, thoughtful but never mannered.

Since then, Chalamet has alternated between introspective dramas and grand spectacle. Films like Beautiful Boy, Little Women and Dune added to his credibility. When he played Henry V in The King, he seemed both regal and lost, the boy beneath the crown. I could sense his fascination with power, and its emptiness.

Chalamet, of course, stands as the quiet antithesis of the traditional Hollywood leading man: the beefy, brawny hero who conquers by force. His appeal lies in a different kind of strength: the courage to appear uncertain, even fragile. He makes vulnerability cinematic again, reminding us that sensitivity and self-doubt can carry as much dramatic weight as muscle and bravado. Where others stride through chaos, Chalamet seems to absorb it inwardly, as if the real battle is always within.

Which brings me back to A Complete Unknown, his foray into the myth of Bob Dylan. The film focused on Dylan’s folk beginnings and transition to electric, the mid-1960s pivot when the folk hero turned his back on purists, plugged in and was booed for it. The title, drawn from that immortal line in Like a Rolling Stone, hinted at the cost of reinvention, how every artist must risk alienation to grow.

What was remarkable was that Chalamet did his own singing and guitar work. No miming, no studio trickery. He wanted to feel what Dylan might have felt: the rasp of voice meeting microphone, the tension between control and release. That sort of dedication wasn’t about method acting. It was about empathy, about finding the heartbeat of another creator who also chose the harder path.

Watching him, I couldn’t help thinking that A Complete Unknown wasn’t just about Bob Dylan’s metamorphosis. It was also about Chalamet’s own. At 29, he’s already negotiating that uneasy space between prodigy and artist, between fame and credibility. Like Dylan in 1965, he’s testing his boundaries, refusing to be pinned down. And maybe that’s the real connection between them: two restless spirits drawn to the idea that identity, like art, is fluid.

OFA members' chess day

The OFA closed chess tournament was months in the planning before it saw the light of day. At the beginning of this year when I was attempting to interest the management committee of The Old Frees' Association in a third edition of the OFA Open, the request came back that the committee would prefer a closed tournament instead of an open event. 

However, me and my two cohorts - Ung Tay Aik and Terry Ong - sat on it until about two months ago after we came back from the Merdeka team event in Kuala Lumpur. It has to be organised, we agreed, and we began looking at possible dates. But the bigger problem was to decide on where to organise it. 

The multi-purpose hall at the Northam Road clubhouse was out of the question because it was undergoing a massive renovation. So we thought the library on the first floor would be a good choice. Then about two weeks ago, we learnt that the OFA Office was moving there temporarily on account of the said renovation on the ground floor. Finally, we decided on using the Bay Avenue premises and that was where the players gathered yesterday for the tournament. 

Since the tournament managed to attract only 10 players, it was decided to play it on a round-robin basis. I had looked forward to playing myself but two weeks ago had to pull back when my daughter said that she would be back from Kuala Lumpur on the same day to celebrate my birthday, although belatedly. Between chess and the jewel of my life, there is no prize for guessing correctly what is more important to me. 

Nevertheless, I turned up at OFA Bay Avenue in the afternoon to watch the final three rounds before going to my birthday dinner. Though it was a closed event and everyone knew one another, the games were taken seriously, with all the players deep in thought over their boards. Naturally, there were winners and losers, but I reminded them that the results were secondary to the camaraderie which mattered more. The day gave the chess members a chance to meet and play, a fact not lost on many of the players. There were proposals to organise a get-together again for a blitz tournament. Why not, if the response is there?

Another point I'd like to make is that rather than calling it the OFA Closed Chess Tournament, I’d rather think of yesterday as the OFA Members’ Chess Day, which we celebrated with a tournament. Perhaps next year, we can have another OFA Chess Day, making it bigger, livelier and with more members joining in the fun.

PS. With this closed tournament done and dusted, the OFA chess section's annual budget has been busted. Completely depleted. We'd like to send at least one team to this year's Penang Chess League but I doubt it is now possible.

Birthday moon

When I was out admiring the super full moon on the night of my birthday two days ago, I couldn’t help but wonder why the Americans and Europeans had special names for each full moon in their skies. For example, this November full moon is known to the Americans as the Beaver Moon. It’s also called the Frost Moon, while the Europeans sometimes refer to it as the Fog Moon.

Over Bukit Mertajam, though, the full moon on this fifth of November wasn’t exactly brilliant. The rainy weather dimmed its glow, leaving it soft-edged and slightly veiled. Still, it was bright enough for me to take a satisfactory snapshot, my quiet keepsake on my birthday night.

Super full moons usually come in a set of three. Three consecutive full moons that appear a little larger and brighter than usual because the moon is at its closest point to Earth. This November full moon happens to be the second in the trio. The first was last month’s Mid-Autumn Festival moon, and the third will rise on the fourth of December.

Exposure: ISO 1250, f7.1, 1/200s

Exposure: ISO 1250, f7.1, 1/800s

Health perils

It’s that time of year again. Another journey completed around the sun. My 71st. And now I’m looking forward to the 72nd, hoping it’ll be a steady, uneventful ride. Wish me luck; I think I’ll need it. The trouble with growing older is that the body starts sending reminders of everything you’ve put it through.

I’ve lived with diabetes for quite some time now, a quarter of a century, kept in check with metformin and gliclazide. But even before that, back in my late 30s, I had my first real taste of pain from uric acid stones in the kidney. I still remember that morning: waking up to an excruciating pain in the back that spread down to a dull ache in the groin. That episode taught me that good health isn’t something to take for granted.

For many years, I used to be a regular blood donor, proud of doing my small part. Then one day, the hospital turned me down because my blood pressure was high. That marked the end of those donation days. Soon after, I was started on cholesterol medication too. Just to be safe, the doctor said, because diabetes, hypertension and cholesterol often travel together. Later, when my cholesterol numbers stabilised, the pills were stopped. But by then, aspirin had entered the picture “to thin the blood,” they told me. That little tablet would come back to haunt me years later when I was hospitalised for two weeks with diverticular bleeding. The blood had thinned a bit too much, and once the vessels broke, there was no stopping it. It was a frightening time, but I recovered, and life went on.

My eyesight began to falter about a decade ago. Glaucoma, the doctor said. Since then, I’ve been on long-term eye drops to slow it down. Lately, though, my vision seem a little mistier as if a thin film has settled across both eyes. The legs have also started to complain. Cramps in the calves and feet, but some good massage therapy has helped ease them. My left knee, however, is another story. The natural lubricant is drying up, and the doctor’s been recommending injections to keep it going. Then there’s the drier skin and eczema. It’s a constant irritation, but what really worries me is the thought of it turning into psoriasis, which my father suffered from. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened.

And finally, the latest in this long list: an enlarged prostate and elevated PSA levels. That discovery on my birthday last year was an anxious one. The tests and scans made me fear the worst, but with treatment and time, the numbers have come down. Still, it’s a reminder that age doesn’t come quietly; it makes its presence felt in all sorts of ways.

So here I am, a man full of prescribed drugs and quiet gratitude. Whether my ailments are typical of a 71-year-old, I can’t say for sure. But I do know that I’ve been lucky that every scare so far has found its resolution, lucky that I can still walk, still see, still write these thoughts down. As I step into my 72nd year, I carry all these stories in my body, each a little scar of survival. May there be more good days than bad ones ahead, and may I have the grace to take them all in stride.

Important hygiene factors

Together with friends from the Nandaka Vihara, we shall be embarking on a Buddhist Trail to Nepal and India later this month, and I thought it might be useful to share a few general tips on hygiene expectations—especially for the India sector, which, if we believe the horror stories from past travellers, could be quite an experience.

Our route this November and December will take us through familiar names from the Buddha’s life: beginning at Lumbini, his birthplace, and crossing the Nepal-India border to Shravasti. We shall travel on to Vaishali and Kushinagar, sites of his final teachings and Mahaparinirvana; to Rajgir and Nalanda, those ancient centres of learning; then to Bodhgaya, where enlightenment came under the Bodhi Tree; and finally to Varanasi and Sarnath, where he preached his first sermon. Ideally, we should visit these sacred places in the order of the Buddha’s life, but travel logistics seldom allow such perfection. There will also be stops in Agra, Jaipur and Delhi, each with its own rhythm and pace. Some towns are bustling, others half-asleep, and it’s in this mix of the urban and the rural that we shall learn to adapt.

The Buddhist Trail in northern India is more than just a string of holy sites. It’s a slow, sometimes dusty, always fascinating journey through places where history and belief still live side by side. Hygiene standards, though, can vary widely from one stop to another, and a bit of common sense goes a long way towards keeping us healthy and comfortable throughout the trip.

Good hygiene starts with simple habits. We’ll keep a small bottle of hand sanitiser handy and wash before meals or after using public toilets, especially at roadside stops. We’ll drink only bottled or filtered water (even for brushing our teeth) and remember that ice can be risky. We’ll eat freshly cooked food whenever possible and save the raw salads and street snacks for when we’re feeling both adventurous and confident about the stall’s cleanliness, which I don't think is possible under any circumstances. Above all, no fish dishes if they’re caught from the Ganges or other rivers where the dead are cremated and their ashes scattered in the waters! Public toilets can range from acceptable to best-forgotten, so it’s wise to carry a bit of tissue paper, wet wipes and hand sanitiser.

Most hotels along the route provide decent bathing facilities. The water in urban areas such as Varanasi and Bodhgaya is treated and generally safe for showering. We just take care not to swallow it. In smaller towns, the supply might come from wells or storage tanks; fine for bathing, but not for drinking or brushing teeth. A quick-dry towel, a bar of travel soap and a pair of shower sandals will make life easier. As mornings can be chilly, a warm layer and a good cup of tea become small blessings.

It’s also sensible to carry a few medical basics. Vaccinations against Hepatitis A, Typhoid and Influenza are worth updating before we go. We should bring along a simple first-aid kit of antiseptic wipes, plasters anti-diarrhoeal tablets and oral rehydration salts are usually all we’ll need. Travel insurance that covers medical emergencies provides peace of mind, even if we never have to use it.

Cleanliness, of course, isn’t just about staying free of germs. The Buddha himself spoke of personal hygiene as part of spiritual discipline: an act of mindfulness and respect for the body that sustains our practice. To wash, shave or brush our teeth regularly was to honour both the teaching and the self. Seen this way, the daily routines of travel - bathing, keeping our clothes tidy, washing our hands - become small meditations in themselves.

The weather during November and December is one of the blessings of the journey: cool, dry, and pleasant. The only nuisance is the dust that hangs over some parts of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, so those with sensitive lungs might find a face mask useful.

In short, we should travel light, travel clean and travel with patience. The Buddhist Trail may test our comfort levels at times but will reward us with moments of deep peace and wonder. The rest is simply part of the journey.

Kyoto 2024, Day 6

With our Japan holiday drawing to a close, we decided to spend our final full day just wandering around Kyoto Station and its surroundings. That was one thing that we still hadn't done. So we took the train to the Kyoto station. 

The moment we stepped out, the familiar sight of the Nidec Kyoto Tower loomed above us. I remembered that on our last trip, we had walked in that direction and somehow ended up at a sushi restaurant in a shopping complex or multi-storey building. Try as I did this time, I couldn’t retrace those steps. Perhaps the place had shut down or relocated elsewhere. Never mind though, we chose instead to stroll aimlessly, dipping in and out of the shops nearby.

A stop at Kyoto Yodobashi was, of course, compulsory. That vast electronics store could easily swallow up half a day and so, even the hour we spent there felt woefully short. Still, it was an improvement over our fleeting visit to one of their Tokyo outlets eight years ago. Soon, hunger took over and we found ourselves outside a restaurant advertising wagyu beef. It didn’t take much convincing. Lunch was decided.

Afterwards, we wandered further from the station and came across another familiar sight: the Higashi Hongan-ji temple, one of the landmarks we had briefly visited all those years ago. We stood there for a moment, wondering where to go next, when a bus suddenly appeared. Feeling a little adventurous, I tugged Saw See along and we hopped on. Destination unknown. For 230 yen, the price of a single bus ride, it seemed well worth getting lost in Kyoto.

Eventually, the bus stopped at Shijo Street, near the Kyoto-Kawaramachi station and not far from Gion again. Shijo Street is one of Kyoto's busiest and most vibrant. But instead of walking around here, we went looking for Nishiki Market, another of Kyoto’s famed destinations. The crowd was tremendous as we joined it. As expected, we ate our way through the entire stretch, sampling snacks and sweets from one end to the other, until the shutters began rolling down. It was only about 6.15 p.m., and the shops were already closing! Emerging once more onto the main Shijo Street, we decided it was time to call it a day and slowly made our way back to the hotel. We were contented, a little weary perhaps but quietly grateful for one more full day in Kyoto.

An afterthought: Farewell, Japan, will we ever see you again? The next day passed without much excitement. We checked out from the hotel and made our way to Kyoto Station to catch the Haruka Express to Kansai International Airport. The AirAsia X flight left Kansai on time, making its scheduled stop at Taoyuan International Airport in Taipei. What puzzled me, though, was why passengers continuing to Malaysia had to disembark with all their cabin belongings and then reboard the same plane after another security check at a different gate. Later, I learnt that this was standard procedure at Taoyuan. Even for transit passengers, the airport authorities require everyone to undergo a fresh security screening before reboarding. It was more than a little inconvenient as I was groggily half-sleepy, but I suppose the Taiwanese take no chances. Still, it did feel rather odd walking off one plane only to queue up and board the very same one again. All that effort just to end up back in the same seat!

Same room, different future

More than fifty years ago,
we sat fresh-faced in the same room at Penang Free School,
dressed alike, believing the world was waiting for us.
The mornings smelled faintly of chalk and grass;
sunlight streaming in through open doors,
while our teachers, with quiet patience,
moulded our young minds for the journeys ahead.

We laughed easily
at small jokes and harmless pranks that lightened the day.
A chalk mark on someone’s back,
a wisecrack that set the class howling.
The echo of our laughter would follow us
down the long corridors,
past the rows of classrooms and notice boards,
and out to the wide playing field
where time seemed to stand still.

It was there, under the same blue sky,
that we grew up without noticing
each game, each shared moment,
the years that waited quietly beyond the school gates.
And now, when I look at the old photographs,
I see the same faces, the same light
that once filled our classroom.

Our teachers have mostly gone,
but their lessons live on.
Not just in what we learned,
but in how we learned to face the world.
Time has softened us, perhaps,
but the boyhood in those eyes still lingers.
For though half a century has slipped away,
a part of us will always belong
to those corridors and that field,
to that sunlit room in Penang Free School.

(This reflection was inspired by an image I saw on whatsapp today.)

Chief Minister talking about us!

I feel elated this morning....

Remember me saying that I’d missed the Chief Minister’s speech at The Old Frees’ Association annual dinner last Tuesday because I was caught up in conversation with some friends? Well, I’d actually rued not knowing what he spoke about because normally I pay attention to his speeches for the nuggets of first-hand information from the most powerful man in the state. 

The most powerful man in Penang.
I mean, the one on the left 😄

Until this morning, that is, when I came across an article in The Vibes by Ian McIntyre. To my pleasant surprise, the Chief Minister, Chow Kon Yeow, was referring to us: mainly Lean Kang, Siang Jin, the late Soo Choon, Sue Chan, myself, and the many others who had chipped in at one time or another to help organise the Student Leadership Workshops for Penang Free School over the years.

Those workshops were entirely our own initiative. We planned, funded and carried out voluntarily, without any thought of personal gain. Every ringgit raised from friends went straight into the programme for the students’ benefit. So to hear that the Chief Minister himself had acknowledged our efforts on stage, and at such a significant occasion, really meant a lot to all of us who had been part of that journey.

Here's Ian McIntyre's story in The Vibes yesterday:

Alumni, former students can offer mentorship, help instil discipline, says Penang CM

 

PENANG Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow has called on the alumni and old boys of various schools to offer mentorship and instil discipline in their respective old schools to check the indiscipline and social ills in public schools. 

"The world our students are growing up in is far more complex than it once was. I understand that some old boys had organised a series of leadership workshops for students. It is a fantastic initiative that can help shape character and confidence."

Chow said that perhaps it is time to revive such an initiative and make it widespread among all public schools - a role for the old boys and alumni to play in helping schools produce students of strong character and calibre.

While funding creates opportunities, mentorship builds people up, especially the young, Chow said at the 102th (sic) anniversary dinner of the Old Frees ' Association at the St Giles Wembley Hotel.

Old Frees who is the official alumni of the oldest English vernacular school in Southeast Asia - the Penang Free School, is also the oldest student body alumni in the country.

Chow credited the Old Frees for their role in moulding generations of exemplary students, who have gone on to be part of Malaysian history.

Among them were the nation's founding father Almarhum Tunku Abdul Rahman Putra Al Haj and Penang's second chief minister the late Tun Dr Lim Chong Eu.

"It pains me to see the young losing empathy and respect for one another. As someone who deeply believes in the importance of education and its values, I worry that schools alone can no longer shoulder this burden of character building."

Chow implored on their alumni and old boys to undertake the additional role of fostering good examples for the present generation.

He singled out the Old Frees for having the attributes to do such a thing.

From its founding in 1923, the alumni old boys association has weathered challenges, and yet it has stayed true to its mission to foster education, camaraderie and the spirit of service.

Among those present were Datuk Dr P.P. Shah, the trustee of the association and a former partner of former premier Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamed in his Maha medical clinic in Alor Setar, the present principal Syed Sultan Shaik Othuman, association president Alex Tan Hee Aik and organising chairperson Raman Athappan. - October 23, 2025.

Cowboys @ OFA

An absolutely grand dinner last night at the St Giles Wembley, held to celebrate the 102nd anniversary of The Old Frees’ Association. I’d arranged for most of the chess-playing crowd to be seated together in a little area of the ballroom where conversation drifted between good food, old memories and, inevitably, chess.

Just some of the chess-playing members, together!

Apart from Saw See and I, there were Han Boon and partner, and Cheng Teik and spouse. Chian Min (CM) and Ronnie came solo without theirs. Lih Fong regretted that I had arranged for the chess players to be together, and he wasn't at it. But he was lucky to sit at the next table and so, he was quite nearby, Kannan told me that he had already prearranged to sit with the pickleball group, while Peng Seng was quietly placed somewhere else, having indicated nothing to me about his arrangements. Kai Ming, having left our chatgroup some time ago, was completely oblivious to our intentions, but he has his kakis too, I'm sure of it! I'm also pretty sure that next year, there'll be more people at the chess table when the others realise how much they had missed being around chess friends!

Chess aside, the other CM, Chow Kong Yow, was the guest of honour at the dinner. He spoke at length but sorry, I missed his speech completely as someone was engaging me in some conversation regarding an old absent friend of ours. 

I bumped into numerous other friends and acquaintances from across the years and also some Present Frees who were with the Board of Prefects, the School Band and the Free School Guiders. The headmaster, Syed Sultan, too was present, which marked the ever close relationship which The Old Frees' Association shared with Penang Free School.

Some may wonder why I had not chosen to sit with my old school cronies this time. For the past umpteen years, my classmates and schoolmates have managed to fill up at least one table at the OFA dinners. But this year, despite me asking them, none of them were interested in attending. This was a great disappointment to me. A new low in my opinion. At the very worst previously, there would be some of us filling up almost the full table of 10 diners. But not this year. I checked with the OFA office and saw none of my schoolmate friends' names in the register. Asking them once was good enough, not going to ask them twice. So I left it at that. 

That said, I still had Siang Juan and his wife at my chess table to fill in the remaining two slots. The surprise was to suddenly see Hock Siew saunter across the ballroom to where we were seated. He had noticed me and came over. Boy, was I surprised to meet him. Back from Melbourne where he now resides for a wedding here, and he took the opportunity to attend the dinner before flying back to Australia. Hock Siew is one of my oldest pals. Knew him from Standard Two at Westlands Primary School and from there, to Penang Free School together. 

Here's a picture of me with the Free School Guiders: Johan on my left and Nordin on my right together with Agilan, this year's School Captain. When we first met, Agilan and Nordin were only in Form Three. They'll be sitting for their SPM examinations next month. Here's wishing them good luck! As Free School boys, I' sure they'll do good in any examination.

Government takeover

Last week, I did say that I would consider presenting a summarised version of a particular section of my book, Let the Aisles Proclaim, that dealt with the Government takeover of Penang Free School. That section alone occupied 10 pages of the book, but I have managed to cut the story down to a more palatable version here, shorn of many details. Here it is:

In 1919, the Penang Free School found itself in a financial bind that could no longer be ignored. The warning signs had been there for years. As early as 1916, during the School’s Centenary celebrations, Headmaster Ralph Pinhorn had already sounded the alarm. Unless the School’s income was substantially increased, he wrote, it would not be able to “keep up to its old level and advance with the times.”

His fears soon proved justified. When the School Committee met in April 1919, Pinhorn reported that the annual deficit was expected to reach $6,800 that year. Left unchecked, the shortfall would swell to $55,400 by 1932, with expenditure projected to rise from $74,800 to nearly $120,000 over that period, while income would remain stagnant at about $64,000. The School, once a proud symbol of Penang’s educational leadership, was staring at insolvency.

The Committee’s sub-committee, tasked with studying the problem, came to a grim conclusion. Raising school fees would be unrealistic since 80 percent of the parents earned less than $200 a month. Public donations were equally unlikely. The days when annual subscriptions brought in a few thousand dollars had long passed. There were only two practical options left: to seek a higher Special Grant from the Government or to ask the Government to take over the School entirely.

The latter suggestion was sensitive. For a century, the Penang Free School had been supported by local philanthropy, by merchants and community leaders, especially from the Chinese community, who saw it as a civic duty to sustain the School. To surrender control to the colonial Government could be seen as abandoning that legacy. Yet, as the sub-committee noted, Government management could bring advantages: better salaries, opportunities for teachers to be promoted to headmasterships or inspectorships, and access to higher professional standards.

Before any decision was made, the matter was referred to the Chinese Town Hall, the symbolic heart of the local community. On 11 April 1919, the Town Hall representatives met and, after due consideration, gave their assent. They raised no objection to a Government takeover.

A month later, Pinhorn, as Honorary Secretary to the Committee of Management, wrote formally to the Colonial Government. His letter was long, detailed and respectful. It was an appeal for survival. The School, he said, required an additional $50,000 a year to maintain its position in the educational life of the Colony, and another $150,000 for new buildings and equipment. He set out two options: either the Government should increase its annual grant, or it should assume full responsibility for the School’s management.

If the latter course was chosen, Pinhorn asked that all funds belonging to the School be placed in the hands of trustees. These funds, he emphasised, were gifts from the people of Penang and should remain dedicated to the School’s improvement, not absorbed into the Colony’s general revenue. He also proposed that the Government delegate day-to-day management to a local Board of Governors. This would, he argued, preserve the School’s individuality and flexibility, preventing the “dead level of uniformity” that came from excessive central control.

Months passed before the Government replied. Then, in early September, a letter arrived from the Acting Colonial Secretary, H Marriott. The tone was cautious but positive: the Government was prepared to take over the School “on terms to be arranged between the Director of Education and the Trustees.”

Negotiations began. The School Committee drafted a list of conditions. All land and buildings would be handed over, since they had been acquired with both public and Government support. The existing funds, however, were to be placed under trustees, the proposed Board of Governors, who would administer them for scholarships and other educational purposes. The School’s masters were to become Government servants, enjoying equivalent pay and privileges, with two-thirds of their previous service recognised for pension purposes.

News of the impending takeover leaked to the press. The Pinang Gazette reported that the Government’s decision “will meet with general approval,” noting that financial pressures had compelled the move but predicting that the Free School’s traditions would be preserved, if not strengthened, under official management.

In the subsequent discussions, not every proposal from the Committee was accepted. The Government objected to the idea of a locally empowered Board of Governors but agreed to the establishment of a Board of Trustees to oversee the School’s endowments. The Committee stood firm that the Endowment Fund must not be absorbed into the Colony’s general coffers. To do so, they argued, would “check future generosity” from Penang’s donors. Eventually, the Government conceded that the Fund would remain a Trust, its income to be used for scholarships and educational improvement.

On another front, there was disagreement over the appointment of headmasters. The Committee wanted the Government to reject seniority as the sole basis for promotion, arguing that merit and energy were far more valuable. “To be over forty,” they wrote pointedly, “is generally regarded as a positive disqualification.” However, the Director of Education, HW Firmstone, was unmoved. While assuring that merit would be considered, he made it clear that the Government alone would decide such appointments.

By December 1919, after much correspondence and negotiation, the Government’s final decision arrived. The Penang Free School would officially become a Government institution on 01 January 1920. The School’s funds were to be divided. Trust monies to be administered by a Board of Trustees, and all other assets transferred to the Crown. The Trustees, consisting of the Director of Education, the Resident Councillor, the Assistant Treasurer and several local representatives, were formally appointed by the Governor on 09 September 1921.

The following year, the Trustees awarded the first of their scholarships, among them the Hutchings Scholarship, in memory of the School’s founder.

Yet, even as these administrative changes unfolded, Pinhorn was looking ahead. The School was overcrowded, he warned at Speech Day that same year, and the facilities inadequate for a modern education. The playing field at the Renong Grounds was too small, and there was always the risk of losing access to it. One solution, he suggested, was to move the senior boys to new buildings outside the congested town.

That idea gained momentum almost immediately. In May 1920, the Legislative Council approved $147,561.45 to acquire land for the expansion of Penang Free School. It was an enormous sum in those days. By February 1921, the Penang Free School (Acquisition) Bill was tabled in the Council to formalise the transfer of the School’s property to the Crown and to establish the statutory Board of Trustees.

The Bill passed on 09 September 1921 and became the Penang Free School Ordinance No. 19 of 1921, deemed effective from the first day of the previous year. Thus, the Penang Free School entered a new era: now a Government school, yet still governed in part by its own endowments, traditions and sense of identity.

In the end, the takeover was both a rescue and a renewal. It ensured the School’s survival at a time of financial strain, while preserving its local spirit through the Trustees. It also paved the way for a new beginning—one that would see the School move to its new home in Green Lane.

Kathina 2025

Today ias Kathina Day at Nandaka Vihara in Bukit Mertajam, one of the most significant events in the Buddhist calendar. I couldn’t make it early to join the morning activities. By the time I arrived around 10.45am, the lunch dāna was already underway. When the meal was over, everyone moved on to the main meditation hall for the second half of the ceremony comprising the dhamma talk, the offering of robes to the monks and the paritta chanting. 

This year, I kept a very low profile. I found myself more in the background than usual, quietly observing rather than participating as a busybody photographer. Perhaps that’s what I needed — to just watch, listen and let the atmosphere sink in. Still, I was glad to witness how the Burmese community marked the occasion with their decorated money trees adorned with folded notes, flowers and ribbons, all offered to the monks. It added a joyful, almost festive touch to an otherwise contemplative moment in the meditation hall.

Run-around

We had my influenza jab yesterday. It’s been more than a year since our last one, and with a flu epidemic sweeping through the country, we thought it best to get another this year. It’s free, by the way, for senior citizens with comorbidities, like us. Registration is done through the MySejahtera app, which conveniently shows where the jabs are available.

Unfortunately, none of the government hospitals or clinics on the mainland had any stock, and the nearest option for us was the Lunas government clinic. We duly made our appointments a week ago, and this morning we took a leisurely drive there ..... only to be told that they’d run out of the flu vaccine! How could that be, since the MySejahtera app had confirmed our appointments?

The nurse was very apologetic, maybe to get us out of her hair as quickly as possible. She suggested that if we hurried to the Padang Serai government clinic, they still had a few doses left. Padang Serai? We’d never been there before. How far was it from Lunas? “Not far,” she assured us with a smile. “Just a straight road to Padang Besar.”

“Not far” turned out to be a very creative description. It was a straight road all right, but ten kilometres of it! Still, we eventually found the clinic, which, to our relief, did have the vaccine. We were registered almost immediately, no questions asked about any comorbidity. After all that run-around in Lunas, no thanks to the MySejahtera app, we weren’t about to argue. Get the jab, and get it done with!

Penang Free School Act 1920

I was at Penang Free School yesterday for the old school’s 209th anniversary Speech Day. Except for one year, I’ve been attending Speech Day without fail since 2012. Some people may wonder why the celebration took place on the 14th of October instead of the traditional 21st. The answer is simple enough: Deepavali falls on the 20th this year, and the school will be closed for the holidays. With no time for preparations when the school reopens, and many guests likely to be away, the 14th was a practical choice. It isn’t unprecedented either; the date has been shifted several times before for good reasons. 

What was missing yesterday, though, was the customary visit to the old Protestant Cemetery in Northam Road for the commemorative service to Robert Sparke Hutchings, the school’s founder. That solemn occasion will still take place on the 21st, and I expect to be there next week.

The guest of honour this year was Chow Kon Yeow, attending in a dual capacity as both Chief Minister and chairman of the Penang Free School Board of Trustees. The Board of Trustees had been neither here nor there for several years, but two years ago, the chairman of the Penang Free School Foundation, Ivan Ooi, took it upon himself to revive it. He had discovered that the Federal Government was enquiring about the Board’s status and future, which prompted him to dig into its history. Ivan eventually approached the Chief Minister, and this renewed attention led to the revival of the Board which is now once again fully constituted and functional.

In his speech, the Chief Minister shared that he was rather surprised when invited to chair the Board of Trustees. After all, he said, he wasn’t an Old Free or even a Penangite by birth. He was born in Kuala Lumpur but came to the island 45 years ago to study at the University of Science Malaysia. So why, he wondered, was he asked to serve?

The answer lay in a little-known piece of legislation: the Penang Free School Act 1920 [Act 842]. The Act, which legally defines the school’s governance structure, had been flagged for possible repeal since it seemed inactive. Ivan quickly realised the historical importance of the Act. After all, no other school in Malaysia is governed by its own Act of Parliament. It was part of what made Penang Free School truly unique. He persuaded the Chief Minister that it must not be repealed, and instead, it was revised and reaffirmed in 2023. 

With that, the Board of Trustees is now properly re-established. The Chief Minister chairs it, the President of the Penang Free School Foundation serves as secretary, and the treasurer’s post is filled automatically by the State Treasury. The Penang Director of Education also sits as an ex-officio member, and three representatives are appointed from the Old Frees organisations.

It’s worth noting that in the original Penang Free School Ordinance No. 19 of 1921, which took effect retrospectively on 01 January 1920, the Board of Trustees comprised the Director of Education, the Resident Councillor of Penang, the Assistant Treasurer of the Straits Settlements Penang, and between three and five persons appointed by the Governor for three-year terms. After Independence in 1957, the composition changed: the Trustees became the Chief Minister, the State Treasurer, the Director of Education, and up to five others appointed for three years by the Yang di-Pertua Negeri.

I won’t go into the details here of how the Penang Free School Ordinance came about. That’s already covered in my book Let the Aisles Proclaim, pages 95 to 104. Perhaps next week, I’ll share a summarised version. But for now, it was enough to sit once again in the familiar Pinhorn Hall, surrounded by the spirit of Free School, proud of its history and quietly pleased to see one small but meaningful part of that history come alive again.

The end of Japanese Occupation

This picture, recently taken from Facebook, shows a remarkable event that took place along Weld Quay in George Town, Penang, on the morning of 03 September 1945. The building with the rectangular windows still stands today, restored and renamed as the stately Royale Chulan Hotel. The one on the right, however, no longer exists. It may look intact in the photograph, but much of it had in fact been reduced to rubble by Allied bombings towards the end of the Second World War.

Few people today remember that Penang was the first place in Malaya to return to British hands after Japan’s surrender on 15 August 1945. The operation that made it happen was called Operation Jurist, a small but significant naval move that quietly brought the war to its close on our shores.

By then, the Second World War was drawing to its end. The Soviets had swept through Manchuria, threatening to invade Japan. The Americans were preparing to strike the Japanese mainland and the British, fresh from their campaign in Burma, had plans to retake Malaya. Their intention was to land more than a hundred thousand men on the west coast to capture Port Swettenham and Port Dickson, before advancing south to Singapore and north to Penang. But those plans, codenamed Operation Zipper, were overtaken by events. The atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, followed by Japan’s sudden surrender, changed everything overnight.

Instead of launching a full-scale invasion, the British revised their plans. Two smaller operations were drawn up: Operation Tiderace to retake Singapore and Operation Jurist to secure Penang first, a test to see whether the Japanese forces in Malaya were truly ready to surrender.

A detachment of Royal Navy ships under Vice-Admiral Harold Walker sailed from Rangoon on 27 August 1945, arriving off Penang the following day and anchoring near the island. The Japanese still controlled George Town, but soon a small fishing boat appeared, carrying Japanese officers who had come to meet the British. It was a strange, tense encounter. The war was supposed to be over, yet no one knew if the Japanese troops would obey their Emperor’s order to lay down their arms.

For several days, there was an uneasy standoff. Messages went back and forth between the British fleet and the Japanese command in Penang. Eventually, Walker issued an ultimatum: the Japanese were to sign the surrender papers aboard his flagship by the morning of the third of September. On the evening before the deadline, Rear Admiral Jisaku Uozomi of the Imperial Japanese Navy and Lieutenant General Shinohara Seiichiro, the Japanese governor of Penang, boarded HMS Nelson. There, they met Walker and signed the formal surrender of the Japanese garrison in Penang. Soon after the signing, Uozomi reportedly fainted and had to be carried away for treatment. An almost symbolic collapse of authority.

The next morning, 03 September 1945, a small party of Royal Marine commandos landed at Weld Quay. Manicasothy Saravanamuttu, a prominent Ceylonese who was the editor of the Straits Echo recounted in his memoirs, The Sara Saga, that "it was on the morning of Monday 3 September that two British destroyers tied up at Swettenham Pier, the Old Jack was hoisted on the flagstaff there and British troops landed in Penang. We, the old Penang Service Committee had reformed ourselves and we were ready with the Town Band to welcome the British troops. In fact, as they emerged from the harbour area our band played the First Company of the Marines into the town, marching at their head, to the E&O Hotel." There, representatives of the local communities had gathered to witness the formal handover of the city to the British.

From there, the marines spread out across the island, taking over Bayan Lepas Airport, the seaplane base at Glugor and other key installations. The Japanese offered no resistance. Some were marched through the streets of George Town, their weapons surrendered, before being ferried across to the mainland, which remained under Japanese control for a few more days.

By that afternoon, the British had restored order to the island. Penang was back under British rule, the first liberated territory in Malaya. Singapore’s surrender followed nine days later, on 12 September 1945, when Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten formally accepted it.

But liberation didn’t bring instant relief. Years of occupation had left the people battered and hungry. Food was scarce, prices were high and there were riots. The British moved swiftly to restore control, placing the whole of Malaya under Military Administration. It remained that way until 01 April 1946, when civilian rule returned with the establishment of the Malayan Union. With the Straits Settlements dissolved, Penang became a Crown Colony within the new Union.

In my book Let the Aisles Proclaim, I included an eyewitness account from the Penang Free School Magazine - the first issue of 1946 - that vividly described the scene at Weld Quay when the British fleet arrived:

“There steaming into Penang were the ships of the Royal Navy. In the twinkling of an eye the piers, wharves and beaches were crowded with thousands of people all beaming with smiles. The whole town was out on holiday. People were stepping on one another’s toes, jostling and pushing to try and get to the front to see the first of the troops that came ashore. Far into the day people were still crowding about the wharves, shaking hands with any soldier they met.”

Reading that account today, I can almost picture the excitement and relief that swept through the island. The joy of seeing freedom return, tempered by the eventual realisation that life after the war would never be the same again.