Manitas de Plata

I was scrolling through YouTube late last night when one video caught my eye and pulled up old memories of watching Manitas de Plata on The Rolf Harris Show sometime in the 1960s or 1970s. That sent me digging through my record and compact disc collection until I found a few albums of his music and put them on again.

Manitas de Plata was one of those musicians whose life story sounded almost as improbable as his playing. Born Ricardo Baliardo in 1921 in a gypsy caravan in southern France, he came from Catalan Gitano stock and learned the guitar by listening, watching, copying and then pushing his fingers beyond what most people thought possible. He could not read music and for much of his life he could not read at all, but his hands did all the talking. His stage name, Manitas de Plata, Little Silver Hands, was no exaggeration.

For years, he had little interest in public fame. Music belonged to family, to the Gitano circle, to ritual and celebration. He played at private gatherings, weddings and the annual pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Concert halls and recording studios were not part of the plan. He did not make his first commercial recording until he was almost 40. While most musicians were already looking back, Manitas was only getting started.

His rise in the 1960s was something accidental. A New York photography exhibition by his friend Lucien Clergue caught the attention of American producers and suddenly this guitarist was pushed onto the international stage. Once the door opened, it stayed open. Records sold in vast numbers and he found himself playing in places far removed from the caravans of his youth.

At his peak, he became a fixture of the French Riviera jet set. Picasso adored him. Dalí, Bardot and others gathered around, entranced by the speed, fire and abandon of his playing. He was treated less like a musician than a force of nature, something raw and untamed that polite society could admire from a safe distance.

Yet among flamenco purists, Manitas was always divisive. To the wider public, he was crowned the King of Flamenco. In Spain, many bristled at the title. Flamenco rests on strict rhythmic discipline, but Manitas often treated those rules as optional. He played for feeling and effect, striking the guitar body like a drum or lifting one hand theatrically into the air while the other raced on. To some, this was heresy. To others, freedom.

Part of the unease lay in the fact that his flamenco was not quite Spanish. Born in France and influenced by the gypsy jazz of Django Reinhardt, he created a hybrid later labelled rumba flamenca. His legacy is hard to escape. Modern Gipsy rumba owes him much. Within his own family, he was the patriarch of a musical dynasty. His son Tonino Baliardo and his nephews, the Reyes brothers, carried that sound into the mainstream as the Gipsy Kings, tracing a clear line back to Manitas.

He played Carnegie Hall 14 times, performed for royalty and his music still surfaces in films, including those by Martin Scorsese. The end, however, was tinged with irony. Despite earning millions and living fast, he died almost penniless in a retirement home in Montpellier in 2014 at the age of 93. He spent freely, supported a very large family and reportedly fathered more than twenty children.

In the end, Manitas de Plata left behind little in the way of possessions, but an unmistakable sound, a disputed crown and the sense of a man who played exactly as he lived: fast, fiercely and with little concern for what came after.

Side One: Moorish church, Dark Sarah, Homage to Baroncelli, Blessing of the sea

Side Two: Mr Jailer, Galop, Fandangos, Shepherd's song, One tear

Mark Tully (1935-2026)

When I was much younger, in my thirties and forties, listening to shortwave radio was a regular part of my life. And if you listened to shortwave long enough, the BBC World Service was almost unavoidable. It became a familiar presence on the dial, steady and dependable. What kept me there were the voices. Commentaries by people like Alistair Cooke and Mark Tully had a way of drawing you in. I could never quite get enough of them.

Whenever I came across their books, I bought them without much hesitation. Cooke’s Letters from America and Tully’s No Full Stops in India both found permanent places in my personal library. I still own those copies, though they now sit quietly in the storeroom, part of an earlier phase of life.

Today I learned of Mark Tully’s death in India, at the age of 90. There is a certain symmetry to it. Born in India, died in India, and in between he spent almost his entire working life there. From 1965 onwards, India was not just his beat but his home. For decades he was the BBC’s voice from the subcontinent, explaining India to the world with patience, curiosity and an ear for nuance. His was not a hurried journalism, but one that lingered, listened and tried to understand.

Nepal-India Day 6: Kushinagar

Dateline: 26 November 2025. The distance from the Tulip Inn Hotel in Shravasti to the Mahāparinibbāna Vihar in Kushinagar is only about 250 kilometres, but distance in northern India is misleading and never measured merely in kilometres. It took us close to eight hours in the coach we had hired for our travels, a full day shaped as much by patience as by movement. For long stretches, the road was a straightforward two-lane national highway, paved and reasonably well maintained, with short sections widened near larger towns. On paper, it looked manageable within six hours but in reality, this was farming country, with agriculture setting its own tempo. Tractors moved unhurriedly from field to field, motorcycles weaved around them, slow trucks lumbered along with improbable loads, and now and then livestock wandered across the road, unbothered by horns. Added the occasional rough patches left unrepaired and the inevitable congestion in market towns where the road narrowed due to life spilling onto it, the journey became less a drive than a steady, patient passage eastwards.

By the time we reached Kushinagar, it was around five o’clock and the sun had already set below the horizon. The coach stopped at the Mahāparinibbāna Vihar. This was not just another pilgrimage site on our itinerary but the place where the Buddha’s long journey came to its final rest. Kushinagar, known in ancient times as Kusinārā, was once the capital of the Malla republic. It was here, between twin sala trees, that the Buddha lay down at the age of 80 and entered Mahāparinibbāna, the final release beyond rebirth. It was also here that his body was cremated, before the relics were divided and enshrined across the subcontinent. These are facts one may already know, but arriving at dusk gives them a different weight.

The approach to the Mahāparinibbāna Vihar was marked by a light haze hanging low in the air, and as daylight faded into the blue hour, the entire site took on an unmistakably ethereal quality. One expected the atmosphere here to be sombre by nature, but what struck me was not heaviness so much as quiet gravity. As the light drained from the sky, the Mahāparinibbāna Vihar began to glow softly, its roof lights forming a gentle halo rather than a glare. Unlike the warmth of Jetavana’s red brick and earthen tones, everything here was an off-white: the temple walls and the bell-shaped Nirvana Stupa directly behind the main temple building. India’s ever-present haze tinted that whiteness faintly yellow with softening edges and blurring boundaries. 

As evening deepened, sound fell away. Where Jetavana carried a sense of movement and life, Kushinagar at dusk settled into stillness. The haze muffled the outside world, enclosing the temple grounds in a cocoon of calm. We all sensed it Our voices dropped, our footsteps slowed. Having arrived, there was now no sense for urgency.

Inside the Mahāparinibbāna Vihar, there were still other visitors along with the resident monks. At the centre lay the reclining Buddha, a six-metre-long image. aligned north-south and facing west, depicting not sleep but the moment of final passing. The statue, originally carved during the Gupta period and restored over centuries, was austere rather than dramatic. The Buddha lay on his right side, head resting on his hand, expression composed, eyes gently closed. The image was already draped in yellow cloth when we entered, a layer perhaps offered by pilgrims before us.

We made our obeisance, circumambulated the statue clockwise, and then settled down around it. The bhantes led us through some short chanting, their voices steady and echoing softly within the hall. After that, our group unfolded two large pieces of yellow cloth of our own and carefully draped them over the image, adding to the earlier layer. The monks then entered the inner perimeter to present robes while we remained watching.

Outside, we had hoped to organise another chanting session but the guards soon approached to inform us that it was getting late and the grounds would be closing. Even so, as we walked out, we were still able to pass by the Nirvana Stupa that marked the Buddha’s cremation site.

From there, we proceeded to The Imperial Kushinagar for the night, thereby completing the second of four essential sites in our itinerary. 

Next:

Nepal-India Day 7: Vaishali 

Previous: 
Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti

Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti

Dateline: 26 November 2025. The only reason I can think of for our group to be in Shravasti, after travelling almost eight hours west into Uttar Pradesh, was to visit Jetavana. Saw See and I had come to India with open minds and few expectations, but even so, seeing Jetavana for ourselves came as a shock. This was an archaeological park, not one which we might normally associate with. The air felt dense with time, and the ground heavy with memory. For more than two decades, Jetavana had been the Buddha’s principal residence, the place where over 800 discourses were delivered. It was not merely a retreat but the intellectual and spiritual centre of early Buddhism.

Almost immediately, it was clear that Jetavana was not just a historical site but a living one. Groups of monks were everywhere, representing Buddhism from Sri Lanka, Thailand, Burma and Tibet, moving quietly through the ruins in saffron and maroon robes. The geography of early Buddhism may lie in northern India, but its living traditions had clearly travelled far and returned.

When we reached the Gandhakuti, the Fragrant Chamber where the Buddha had lived and meditated, a large group of Thai monks had already gathered there. They occupied the space completely, chanting in unison, unhurried and intent. There was no question of us squeezing in, our group of 38 monks and lay people, so we moved on and drifted towards the Anandabodhi Tree. 

The Anandabodhi Tree is said to be a direct descendant of the original Bodhi Tree at Bodhgaya. It was planted during the Buddha’s lifetime so that when he travelled, those who remained at Jetavana would still have a living focus for their devotion. When we arrived, there were few people around. The quiet gave us room to pause, to chant and sit for a while in meditation. Standing beside the tree, the logic of its planting made immediate sense.

Jetavana owed its existence to an act of devotion. Anāthapiṇḍika, a wealthy merchant whose name is usually translated as “feeder of the orphans”, was searching for a suitable place to house the Buddha and his monks. He found it in a park owned by Prince Jeta. The prince named an impossible price: the land would be sold only if it could be covered entirely with gold coins. Anāthapiṇḍika took him at his word, laying coin after coin until only a small patch remained. At that point, Prince Jeta relented. He donated the rest of the land and supplied timber for the buildings. What began as a challenge ended as an act of shared generosity. 

We eventually returned to the Gandhakuti. The Thai monks were still there. We waited a while, then paid our own homage quietly by lighting candles and offering flowers at the foundations that mark where the kuti once stood. Nothing remains of the structure itself, yet the place still draws devotion. 

Walking through the ruins, we became aware of how often this sensation would return during our time in India: the feeling of stepping across layers of time. Jetavana, in particular, is bound up with stories of transformation. It was here that Angulimāla, the feared bandit who wore a garland of fingers, encountered the Buddha and found redemption. Such stories feel less abstract when you are standing on the very ground where they are said to have unfolded.

Jetavana today is no longer home to thousands of monks. It is a quiet archaeological park. Yet it is far from empty. By the time we left, more monks and visitors had arrived. It was clear why Jetavana has become an essential stop on any Buddhist pilgrimage. Some places do not need to be reconstructed. They speak well enough through whatever ruins remain.

We left the Tulip Inn Hotel in Shravasti at nine o’clock, setting off on yet another eight-hour road journey, this time eastwards towards Kushinagar. Our destination was a different kind of sacred ground: the place where the Buddha attained Mahāparinibbāna.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 6: Kushinagar

Previous:

Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Demolition accident

In 2021 when I was working on 10,000 Prosperities, the book on Ban Hin Lee Bank, there was one minor incident I felt unnecessary to include at the time. It seemed a diversion from the main story. Looking at it again now, I think it fits rather well as an addendum to the bank’s history.

By the middle of 1936, Beach Street was changing. Numbers 41 to 47, old shophouses that had long done unremarkable business along that stretch of road, were coming down to make way for something newer and larger: a purpose-built home for Ban Hin Lee Bank. The land belonged to Yeap Chor Ee. The bank itself was operating just a few metres up the road, from a modest building at the junction of Beach Street and Market Street, which he also owned. For a newly incorporated bank seeking recognition in a colonial port city, modesty was no longer enough.

What Yeap wanted was an imposing building that rivalled European-owned buildings and, just as importantly, assure his Chinese customers of merchants and traders that his was a bank that was strong, dependable and reliable. Perhaps he had in mind the Chartered Bank or the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank buildings further down the road. In any case, he envisaged a structure built along classical lines, one that would place Ban Hin Lee visually among the established pillars of finance on Beach Street.

Demolition began sometime in June. Red flags were strung along drains and five-footways, the old and familiar signals that had long served as warnings to passers-by. What were missing, at least at first, were proper hoardings to separate the site from the street and, more importantly, a licence from the municipal authorities permitting the buildings to be taken down. On 29 June, those omissions turned fatal.

That afternoon, Sikandar, a 12-year-old Indian boy, was carrying coffee from a shop in China Street to a money-changer who operated from the five-footway along Beach Street. It was something he did regularly. This time, he never returned. As part of No. 47 collapsed, bricks and tiles fell into the public way. Sikandar was struck and badly injured. By the time help arrived, it was too late.

His death set off a chain of proceedings that stretched over several months. In August, the coroner, HAL Luckham, found that the boy’s death was an accident involving contributory negligence on several sides. A workman might have acted negligently, but there was no definite evidence. The contractor, Anamalai Chettiar, should be prosecuted. The liability of the owner was less clear. He also noted that the money-changer had remained under a building he knew was being demolished.

The contractor’s case was heard first. Anamalai Chettiar was charged with failing to take proper precautions to protect human life. Witnesses testified that rubble had been falling onto the road, that the old houses were already unsafe and that demolition had begun without either a licence or protective hoardings. He was eventually found guilty and fined $25.

Running alongside this was a trickier question: who was actually responsible for the site? Yeap Chor Ee had sold the materials from the old houses to the contractor under a written agreement. The contractor was to provide the labour, insure his own workers and clear the site within a month. From Yeap’s point of view, this was a simple sale. Once the agreement was signed, the buildings, and the risks that came with them, were no longer his concern.

The Municipality disagreed and summonses were issued for failing to put up proper hoardings and starting demolition without a licence. The case drifted back and forth in the Police Court, often stalled by technical legal arguments that seemed to sideline the fact that a boy had been crushed to death on Beach Street.

When the matter finally came fully before the court in November, everything came down to how the law defined a few seemingly simple words. Under the Ordinance, who counted as the “owner”? Did responsibility rest on legal ownership, physical control or intention? And could someone be prosecuted for failing to put up hoardings when, without a licence, he was not legally allowed to erect them in the first place?

The Municipality’s lawyer argued that Yeap Chor Ee had intended the buildings to be demolished, that he ultimately remained in control and that duties meant to protect the public could not simply be passed on by contract. The defence replied that this was not an employment arrangement but a sale of materials, that the contractor was in possession and that where the law meant to impose responsibility on owners, it said so clearly.

When judgment was delivered just before the end of the year, it found that Yeap Chor Ee was guilty of commencing demolition without first obtaining a licence, and he was fined $200. An application for a stay pending appeal was granted, but the point had been made.

Here, my account ends as I could find no further details of the accident or the subsequent court proceedings. After Ban Hin Lee Bank relocated to its new premises some time in 1937, registered as 43 Beach Street, the final act came in January 1940 when Yeap Chor Ee transferred ownership of the property to the bank for the sum of Straits Dollars $55,000.

Sources for this story:
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 10 September 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 30 October 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 19 November 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 20 November 1936
Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 30 December 1936

#banhinlee #bhlbank #bhlb #yeapchoree

The sun

On one hand, there is Pongal. On the other, there is Lì Chūn (立春), or Jip Chūn as we Penang Hokkien folk call it. Two festivals from different cultures, thousands of miles apart, yet bound by the same denominator: the Sun. Let me elaborate.

Every year without fail, the Sun traces the same invisible journey across the sky. It never rushes, never hesitates. It advances by roughly one degree a day, completing its 360-degree journey in a little over 365 days. Long before calendars, clocks or even written history, farmers in India and China learned independently to read this slow walk of light. Out of that observation were born Pongal and Li Chun.

In the Tamil world, the crucial moment for Pongal comes when the Sun reaches a particular point in its yearly path, one that later Indian astronomy would call Makara Saṅkrānti, coinciding with the Sun’s entry into the zodiac segment known as Capricorn. It almost always falls on the 14th of January, though in 2026 it occurs on the 15th. That is why Pongal is so steady on the calendar while most other Indian festivals drift with the Moon. Pongal does not wait for a lunar phase. It looks straight at the Sun.

For people whose lives were shaped by the soil, this marked the turning point of winter. The Sun, which had been sinking lower in the sky since June, reached its lowest point at the December solstice. By Makara Saṅkrānti, it had already gathered enough strength to begin its northward climb. The days would lengthen. The earth would stir. And so the milk was boiled, the rice sweetened and the Sun thanked for returning.

China mapped the same solar journey, but instead of zodiac signs it divided the circle into 24 equal segments, each fifteen degrees wide, known as the solar terms. They are not festivals in the modern sense but seasonal markers with names such as Lesser Cold, Greater Cold, Coming of Spring, Rain Water, Awakening of Worms and et cetera.

When Pongal arrives in mid-January, the Chinese calendar is passing from the Lesser Cold (小寒) solar term to the Greater Cold (大寒). The deepest chill of winter usually comes around the 20th of January. While the Tamil farmer senses the Sun turning homeward, the Chinese farmer feels winter tightening its grip. They are reading the same sky, only from different angles.

Forty-five solar degrees later, the Sun reaches 315 degrees. The Chinese name for this moment is Li Chun, the Coming of Spring. It usually falls around the fourth of February, when frost may still linger in northern China. Yet in Chinese metaphysics, this is the true start of the new year. A child born before Li Chun belongs to the old zodiac animal even if Chinese New Year has already been celebrated. The Moon may start the festivities, but it is the Sun that shifts destiny.

Seen together, the story becomes seamless. After the solstice, the Sun begins its slow return northward. Around the 14th of January, Tamil homes boil rice in new pots and cry out “Pongal, Pongal!” Around the 20th, Chinese almanacs mark the depth of winter. And around the fourth of February, it's Li Chun. Spring has begun, not in temperature, but in truth.

Pongal does not correspond to Chinese New Year. It corresponds to the Sun itself, just as Li Chun does. They are not parallel festivals but points along the same solar year, fixed by the geometry of the heavens. What appears to be cultural difference is really perspective: the Tamils give thanks for the Sun’s return while the Chinese declare that spring has begun.

Every January and February, unnoticed by most of us, the Sun retells this story of celestial degrees — 270°, 300° and 315° — and two civilisations, thousands of miles apart, continue to mark its passage in their own way.

Commemorating Pongal

Today's Pongal, which is a Tamil harvest festival rooted in gratitude, renewal and the intimate relationship between human life and nature. Celebrated each year in mid-January, it marks the end of the agricultural cycle and gives thanks to the Sun, the land, cattle and the labour that sustains daily life. While it has long been observed within Tamil communities, its presence and visibility in Penang have grown steadily over the past two decades, becoming part of the island’s wider cultural landscape.

Historically, Pongal is no recent invention. References to the festival appear in Chola-period inscriptions, including a land grant recorded during the reign of Kulottunga I in the 11th century, as well as in devotional Tamil literature such as Tiruvempavai. Even the dish itself of rice cooked with milk and sweetened with jaggery until it boils over has evolved across centuries, appearing in temple offerings and royal kitchens long before it became a household ritual. The word “pongal” means “to boil over”, a symbolic gesture of abundance and prosperity.

The festival unfolds over four days. Bhogi marks the discarding of the old, both literally and symbolically, with homes cleaned and unwanted items burned to welcome renewal. The second day, Thai Pongal or Surya Pongal, is the heart of the celebration. Freshly harvested rice is cooked in a clay pot at sunrise, often outdoors, until it spills over. The offering is first made to the Sun God, acknowledging his role in sustaining life. Mattu Pongal follows, honouring cattle for their role in agriculture, and the festival concludes with Kanum Pongal, a day of visits, picnics and communal gatherings.

In Penang, Pongal was once largely observed within temples and family compounds. My own first encounter with a public Pongal celebration was in Glugor, about a year after George Town received UNESCO World Heritage recognition. At the time, it felt modest and local, rooted firmly in the neighbourhood. Since then, the festival’s profile has grown noticeably. Over the past 20 years, public Pongal events have become more visible, supported by temples, community groups and state bodies. Kolam designs now spill onto pavements, ceremonial cooking takes place in open spaces and celebrations increasingly draw curious onlookers from outside the Tamil community.

This growing awareness mirrors Penang’s broader embrace of cultural heritage. Just as Chinese clan houses and Malay traditions are publicly celebrated, Pongal has found space to be seen, explained and appreciated. It remains, at its core, a festival of thanksgiving and humility, but in Penang today it also stands as a reminder that shared rituals, when allowed to be visible, enrich the life of the city as a whole.

Weekend in Malacca

We’d just spent a weekend in Malacca. Saturday was for a wedding dinner and for a full Sunday we wandered the heritage quarters with our daughter, who had driven us down from Kuala Lumpur. We deliberately skipped the Stadthuys and Christ Church, choosing instead to roam Jonker Street and the surrounds, ducking into the Cheng Hoon Teng Temple (青云亭) and the Malacca Sam Toh Temple (馬六甲三多廟) along the way, before moving over to the quieter Bunga Raya area. Crossing the Malacca River became part of the rhythm of our explorations.

Jonker Street was not overly busy even by mid-morning, though it was already bustling enough. Human traffic would pick up later. No matter, it was a slow-moving tide of visitors threading past souvenir stalls, dessert shops and cafés trading heavily on nostalgia. However, the shophouses looked almost too clinical, drained of a past that once defined the street before UNESCO recognition arrived. As we walked down the road, the occasional whiff of fresh coffee drifted from a shop. To me, Jonker has lost its old-world charm. On a Sunday afternoon, it felt more like a stage than a street, animated less by daily life than by tourism’s money!

Across the river, Bunga Raya Road was quiet and traditional by contrast. Sunday traffic was light, which may have helped, but the change in mood was immediate. A few residents moved about unhurried. Some shops had just enough customers to suggest life, nothing more, while many others were shuttered, perhaps for good. There were no tour groups, no queues forming for anything in particular and no one trying to sell you anything. Whatever business was taking place seemed meant for the people who lived there, not for passing visitors. Away from Jonker’s environment, the noise fell away and the walking became easier, almost absent-minded. 

So it was by chance that I walked into an old record shop, now attempting a transition into a coffee joint but, to my mind, not very successfully. Rows upon rows of compact discs, cassettes and cartridges were still on display. In a corner were stacks of long-play records and seven-inch singles. What a find! I wasn’t interested in the 12-inch LPs, only the seven-inch 45s, and I came away with four items, RM40 poorer.

The Malacca River itself had its own charm. Houses and small establishments lined both banks, freshly spruced in vivid colours, as though the river were a backdrop rather than a working waterway. Occasionally a river boat glided past loaded with tourists. We saw the river by day and night and the contrast was striking. During daylight, families and sightseers drifted along the banks at an unhurried pace. At night, the crowd shifted towards the bars and restaurants, more interested in food, drinks and atmosphere than the river itself. The water remained unchanged but the people using it behaved differently, occupying the same space for entirely different reasons.

Food, of course, was part of the story. We slipped up on Saturday with a riverside lunch at an establishment clearly aimed at tourists. The presentation tried hard but the flavours were ordinary and slightly off. 

Sunday, however, redeemed itself entirely. Breakfast of nyonya kueh at Baba Charlie Café was an adventure in itself, selecting treats one by one. Lunch at Swee Tin’s Nyonya Kitchen, a little pricey thanks to its prime side-street location off Jonker Street, was worth every bite, especially the curry chicken buah keluak, pictured here, which I heartily endorse. Theirs was one of the best I've tasted in Malacca. Dinner at Baba Ang Restaurant rounded off the day perfectly: generous portions, honest prices and flavours that left our taste buds delighted. Each meal was unpretentious, focused on getting the food right rather than putting on a show, reminding us that in Malacca, as elsewhere, eating well often comes down to making the right choices, sometimes accidentally.

In the end, the weekend felt like a series of contrasts: the bustling, almost theatrical energy of Jonker Street versus the quiet calm of Bunga Raya; the steady churn of daytime river traffic versus the relaxed drift of night; and the ordinary tourist traps against the carefully chosen local meals that truly satisfied. Crossing the river, moving from one pace to another, tasting the city in fragments, it became clear that Malacca is a place best experienced slowly, on foot and with the curiosity to look beyond the obvious.

Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti

Dateline: 25 November 2025. With Lumbini behind us, it was time to begin the long overland journey around northern India. After an early lunch -- many in our group decided to revisit the Mayadevi Temple in the daytime but not us because we had already done so last May, we waited outside the Buddha Maya Garden Hotel to board the bus. Our Indian guide, Pankaj, had already cautioned us that the Sonauli border crossing could be unpredictable, and that delays were common.

The warning proved accurate. We watched with some perplexity as neighbouring queues formed and appeared to move faster than ours. Immigration formalities dragged on, and by the time everyone had cleared the Indian checkpoint, more than two hours had elapsed. From there, the road stretched westward for another 7½ hours, carrying us deep into Uttar Pradesh towards Shravasti. Our sole reason for coming to this otherwise unremarkable town was to visit the ruins of the Jetavana monastery, but by the time we arrived, darkness had long since settled. There was nothing left to do but head straight to the Tulip Inn Hotel, where we finally pulled in close to 11 o'clock at night.

A late but warm dinner awaited us, the hotel kitchen kept open in anticipation of our arrival, for which we were thankful. However, there was little opportunity to unwind after dinner. A quick bath, a brief search for clothes for the next day and then straight to bed. The wake-up call was set for 6.30am, followed by breakfast, checkout and yet another day on the road. Even as we turned in for the night, it was clear that the journey ahead would allow little breaks, carrying us forward whether we were ready or not.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti

Previous:

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Our guide, Pankaj, outside the Nepal Immigration Office

The long queue at the Indian Immigration Office

Signals

True or false signals?

I saw this graphic shared a lot on social media - facebook and whatsapp - and wonder whether this collection of allegations, investigations, court cases and controversies are true or false? Sorry, ah, I've been living under a tempurong for quite a while, and need more enlightened souls to advise me.

 

Bob Wade memorial masters

Starting in about a week's time, from 15 to 21 January 2026, Auckland will host what will easily be one of the strongest chess gatherings ever staged on New Zealand soil. At the Waipuna Hotel and Conference Centre, organiser Paul Spiller, with the support of FIDE’s Planning and Development Commission and the Middle Game Chess Foundation, will oversee a series of five round-robin tournaments held in memory of Bob Wade and several other towering figures in New Zealand chess.

The Bob Wade Memorial Masters is the flagship event of the series. It will be a rare New Zealand tournament offering opportunities for both Grandmaster and International Master norms. Alongside it run the Hilton Bennett, Arthur Pomeroy and Peter Weir Memorial Masters, as well as the Middle Game Chess Foundation Challengers, together forming a week-long celebration of competitive chess and historical continuity. Hilton Bennett will be fondly remembered by some Malaysian chess players as this New Zealander was a regular face in many editions of our own Malaysia Chess Festival in Kuala Lumpur until his death in 2022.

Bob Wade himself needs little introduction to many. Born in Dunedin in 1921, he went on to win three New Zealand Championships before relocating to Britain in 1950, where he added two British titles to his record and represented his adopted country at seven Chess Olympiads. Awarded the International Master title that same year, Wade was also a formidable organiser and official, becoming an International Arbiter in 1958. Beyond the board, he left his mark as an author, editor at Batsford, and famously as a behind-the-scenes contributor to Bobby Fischer’s preparation for the 1972 World Championship match. Yet for many, his greatest legacy lies in his quiet, sustained mentoring of younger players. Wade passed away in 2008.

Bob Wade

The memorial event bearing his name was first staged in Auckland in 2021 by the Howick–Pakuranga Chess Club, with Paul Spiller at the helm. Subsequent editions in 2023 and 2025 evolved into elite ten-player round robins, producing winners such as Samy Shoker in 2023, and Zong-Yuan Zhao and Gábor Nagy jointly in 2025. The Bob Wade Memorial Masters has now established itself as the premier event of the series and one of the few places in New Zealand where IM norms could realistically be earned.

Headlining the 2026 edition is England’s Michael Adams, one of the finest players Britain has ever produced. At his peak, Adams reached a FIDE rating of 2761 in 2013. This is still the highest ever achieved by a British player. A semi-finalist in the World Championship cycles of the late 1990s and early 2000s, and a finalist in 2004, he remains a formidable competitor. Now rated 2635 in the January 2026 rating list, he is a nine-time British Champion, most recently crowned last year, and the reigning World Seniors (50+) Champion. 

Supporting him is a formidable cast. Defending champion Gábor Nagy (2439) of Hungary returns, alongside Malaysia’s first Grandmaster, Yeoh Li Tian (2503). England’s Daniel Howard Fernandez (2527), Poland’s Jacek Stopa (2330), and Australia’s James Morris (2422) add further depth, while New Zealand is strongly represented by Tom Middelburg (2345) and Sravan Renjith (2342), both Olympians in 2024, as well as Felix Xie (2379), the current national champion and IM-elect. Rounding out the field is FIDE Master Daniel Gong Hanwen (2246), himself a two-time New Zealand Champion.

Taken together, it is an exceptional lineup with five Grandmasters, three International Masters, an IM-elect and a FIDE Master. This, at the far edges of the chess world where ambition, memory and opportunity can align. For Bob Wade, who spent his life building bridges across generations and continents, it would have been a fitting sight.

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree

Dateline: 24 November 2025. One activity that had never entered our reckoning when Nandaka Vihara was planning this pilgrimage to Nepal and India was the possibility of crossing paths once again with Sayadawgyi Bhaddanta Āciṇṇa, the revered head of the Pa-Auk forest monk tradition from Burma. When Saw See and I were first in Nepal last May, we had travelled to the Dhammadāyāda Meditation Centre in Phasku to meet him. By then, the 90-year-old Sayadawgyi was already frail and visibly unwell, largely confined to his bungalow and attended to day and night by a small circle of monks.

At the time, we could not help wondering why he had chosen to remain in such a remote monastery. The road to Phasku was punishingly difficult, and in any medical emergency, the only realistic option would have been evacuation by helicopter. A few months later, news reached us that he had been transferred to Singapore for dialysis treatment, and I assumed he would remain there for some time. It therefore came as a surprise when, sometime in October, we were told that the Sayadawgyi had returned to Nepal. Not to Phasku, but to Lumbini.

He was there to oversee an ambitious project to plant some 20,000 sāla trees. With a little luck, those of us from Nandaka Vihara who had met him months earlier might see him again. And see him, we did. On the third day of our stay in Nepal, while returning from Ramagram Stupa, we encountered him at the Lumbini Buddha Garden Resort, still frail and confined to his bed. His monk-aides surrounded him to ensure that he was not overly exposed to unwanted germs and viruses from visitors.

The following morning, we drove north of the Māyādevī Temple to a vast open clearing where the sāla forest was to take root. Thousands of saplings had already been planted, but the land stretched out so far that it seemed almost boundless. While waiting for the Sayadawgyi to arrive, we decided to plant some saplings ourselves. It was not often that we were given the chance to take part in something like this, and the occasion felt entirely fitting. 

After an hour or two, the Sayadawgyi arrived with his entourage of monks and lay devotees, and the planting resumed in earnest. As we worked, it became clear why the sāla tree had been chosen. In the Buddhist tradition, it occupies a quietly significant place. It is said that Queen Māyā, travelling through the Lumbini Grove, reached up to grasp the branch of a blossoming sāla tree as Siddhartha was born. Later, during the final phase of his life as a wandering ascetic, Siddhartha spent his last night before enlightenment resting in a grove of sāla trees. And at the end of the Buddha's earthly journey in Kushinagar, he asked that a couch be prepared between twin sāla trees. Though it was not their flowering season, the trees were said to have burst into bloom as he entered Mahāparinibbāna, their falling petals offering a final, wordless teaching on impermanence.

Standing there in Lumbini, planting young sāla saplings into the earth, it felt as though we were participating in a continuity that stretched far beyond us. A small gesture but still quite meaningful to us. Trees grow, flower and eventually fade away; beginnings trailing into endings, both sharing the same page. The Sayadawgyi’s presence, the quiet labour of monks, lay devotees and workers, and the open land waiting to be transformed all seemed to echo that truth. With our objectives realised and Lumbini behind us, we prepared to leave Nepal. We would cross into India the next morning.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti

Previous:

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 
Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

A year on

The empty feeling of losing an old friend still lingers within me, and I had chosen to remain quiet about Oon Hup’s death anniversary yesterday, especially with Emily, his sister. However, she reached out in the evening and shared a video of my late schoolmate exercising at a nursing home, taken not long after his brain surgery. Along with it came a fuller account of his final months. How he had been recovering well, even regaining strength, until October, when his condition suddenly deteriorated. Such is the cruel and relentless nature of glioblastoma, one of the most aggressive forms of cancer. As Emily herself put it:

He was very well after his operation. Even during his radiotherapy sessions at Mt.Miriam hospital. From April, May, June and July, he was in good health. Then the double dose of chemotherapy and cancer caused his deterioration in August. He had to stay in a nursing home from September onwards. Still able to eat on his own, and use his phone and I- pad. But from October, he went downhill very fast. Couldn't use his left leg and arm. Had to sit the whole day in a recliner, fed by Sri Lanka worker. He could still eat on his own on his birthday. But from December, he was no longer speaking, having difficulty in swallowing food, couldn't drink. Had to be fed water and food. So very little sustenance or liquid. Poor fellow. Finally, was sent to the General Hospital and a few days later to the government hospice. Just from Sunday to Thursday, 3 days GH, 2 days hospice. Friday morning, passed away at 5.38 am. Farewell.