Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: The sala tree

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.

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.

January's supermoon

A wonderful sight last night. Managed to capture the super full moon and the remarkably bright planet Jupiter within the same frame. At magnitude –2.7, Jupiter was so bright that it could be seen with the naked eye despite the moon’s overwhelming brilliance. I took the first image with my Olympus camera at 11.10pm, with the moon 99.8 percent illuminated. The second image focused solely on the full moon itself: perfectly round, steady and absolutely breath-taking!

Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu

Dateline: 23 & 24 November 2025. Anyone who has followed my occasional ramblings on this blog may recall a piece I wrote last year, inspired by my visit to the Mahāvana Forest near Kapilavastu in Nepal. It drew on the Mahāsamaya Suttam, which recounts how the Buddha, after intervening to prevent a war over water rights, offered spiritual guidance to 500 princes. This in turn became the occasion for an extraordinary celestial gathering. Despite Māra’s attempts to sow disruption, countless beings attained enlightenment, marking a rare moment of harmony and spiritual release on a truly cosmic scale.

Bodhi tree at Ramagram stupa

What I had not expected was how quickly those words would begin to find their way back to me once I arrived in Lumbini this second time. Our first visit was to Ramagram Stupa. When we entered the grounds, a large group of Thai monks, perhaps 80 of them, together with a smaller number of lay devotees, were already deep in meditation. Our own group settled roughly some 50 metres away, preparing to do the same. All except me. I remained alert, watching.

When the Thai group completed their meditation, they rose quietly and began walking along the boardwalk that encircled the stupa. They made three slow circumambulations before stopping and turning as one to face the shrine. Only then did I fully register the scene that had formed. My group was seated on the ground in silent meditation, facing the stupa, and behind us, an entire line of monks standing still, also facing it. No movement, no sound, just layered stillness.

The image struck me with unexpected force. My mind went immediately to the Mahāsamaya Sutta, to the account of 500 monks seated before the Buddha, surrounded by vast assemblies of celestial beings gathered to hear his teaching. I could see a parallel and it was uncanny.  In that moment, the physical arrangement mirrored the ancient account so closely that it felt less like coincidence than recurrence. The scene seemed to suggest that certain configurations of stillness, reverence and collective focus arise naturally, across centuries and cultures, whenever human beings gather around something they hold to be profoundly meaningful. Recognising that pattern, seeing the ancient narrative briefly reenacted in an entirely ordinary setting, left me awe-struck.

My second moment came at the Māyādevī Temple. On an earlier visit, the exact spot of the Buddha’s birth had never been clearly pointed out to me. I remembered only excavated ground and scattered stones. This time, a guide pointed out the marker itself. Standing there, looking down at that simple stone, I felt something quietly profound take hold. Later, as we sat within the temple to reflect, my eyes went damp not from sadness, but from a sudden, complete joy. This was where it had all begun, the first step in the Buddha’s journey on earth, and I was so thankful to be near it.

And so it led, almost inevitably, back to Mahāvana Forest and the Mahāsamaya Suttam itself. We walked along shaded paths until the trees opened into a small clearing. Today, a modest Hindu shrine stands there, marking the space where the Buddha is said to have addressed his 500 newly ordained monks. The setting was unassuming, even ordinary, yet it carried a certain weight as if the ground itself remembered what had once taken place there.

The monks in our group settled into position and began chanting the Mahāsamaya Suttam. We sat facing them, chanting books open in our hands. Once again, the arrangement felt strangely familiar: monks upright and composed, lay followers seated before them, the forest enclosing us in a stillness. There was no ceremony beyond the chant itself, no attempt to recreate anything.

What surprised me most was my own response. The Pāli text should have been alien to me. The words, the rhythms, even the translations. And yet, almost instinctively, I found myself following the chant line by line. I could locate the verses without hesitation, even pointing them out to Saw See, who sat beside me, thoroughly lost. It felt less like reading and more like recognition, as though something long stored had been unlocked.

Those moments, more than anything else on the journey, still stays with me. In the Mahāvana Forest, as earlier at Ramagram, the ancient arrangement surfaced once more. Monks and lay followers gathered in the same geometry described in the texts, not by design but by instinct. For a brief moment, the present felt like a continuation of the past, and the time distance between then and now seemed to fade away.

Previous:
Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Be healthy!

Have a healthy year ahead!

 

Hat-trick

Poor Susanto Megaranto. I don’t think he has ever been put through anything quite as mentally punishing as what unfolded at the recently concluded SEA Games in Bangkok. He was playing in the men’s rapid doubles event for Indonesia, paired with Novendra Priasmoro. Both are grandmasters, with Priasmoro on first board and Megaranto on second. 

Indonesia met Malaysia in the opening round of the preliminaries. On top board, Priasmoro defeated our newly-minted grandmaster Yeoh Li Tian. But on the second board, our international master Poh Yu Tian struck back, beating Megaranto to keep the team score level. I won’t go through the round-by-round details, but after five rounds of preliminaries, it was Malaysia who finished top of the standings and booked a place in the semi-finals. Fate, as it turned out, had a sense of humour: Malaysia would face Indonesia again. 

The format for both the semi-finals and final was straightforward. If the match ended 1–1, tie-breaks would follow. In the Malaysia–Indonesia semi-final, both games were drawn and the score duly sat at 1–1. In the first tie-break, Priasmoro once again got the better of Yeoh, but Poh responded by beating Megaranto, levelling matters at 2–2. Still no separation. So on to a second tie-break. 

This time, Yeoh played solidly and held Priasmoro to a draw. That left Poh with the task of deciding the match, and he did so with authority, beating Megaranto yet again to send Malaysia through. Rapid chess, of course, is not standard chess, and the results should not be equated too readily. Even so, my assessment is that the domination was complete. Poh played adventurously with remarkable fearlessness throughout, and if this is any indication, his future development augurs very well indeed. 

As for Megaranto, losing three times and managing only a single draw in four games against the same opponent is something he is unlikely to have experienced often in his career, if at all. One can only surmise he has put this episode behind him. Meanwhile, these are their games from the semi-finals; regrettably, the moves from their first-round encounter in the preliminaries are missing.

[Event "SEA Games 2025"] 
[Site "Bangkok, Thailand"] 
[Date "2025.12.19"] 
[Round "6"] 
[White "Susanto Megaranto"] 
[Black "Poh Yu Tian"] 
[Result "1/2-1/2"] 
[WhiteELO "2532"] 
[BlackELO "2314"]

1. d4 Nf6 2. Nf3 e6 3. Bg5 h6 4. Bh4 d5 5. e3 c5 6. c3 Nc6 7. Nbd2 Qb6 8. Rb1 Be7 9. Bd3 Qc7 10. O-O b6 11. Bg3 Bd6 12. e4 Bxg3 13. hxg3 cxd4 14. cxd4 Bd7 15. Rc1 Qd8 16. a3 dxe4 17. Nxe4 Nxe4 18. Bxe4 Rc8 19. d5 exd5 20. Qxd5 O-O 21. Rfd1 Nb8 22. Qb7 Rxc1 23. Rxc1 Qf6 24. Rc2 a5 25. Rd2 Bc6 26. Bxc6 Qxc6 27. Qe7 Qc1+ 28. Kh2 Qc8 29. Qd6 b5 30. Rd5 Qb7 31. Nd4 b4 32. Rxa5 bxa3 33. bxa3 Nd7 34. Rb5 Qc8 35. Nf5 Qe8 36. f3 f6 37. Qd5+ Kh8 38. Rb7 Qh5+ 39. Kg1 Ne5 40. Nxg7 Qg5 41. Ne6 Qxg3 42. Qe4 Nxf3+ 43. Qxf3 Qe1+ 44. Kh2 Qxe6 45. Qf4 Qe5 46. Qxe5 fxe5 47. Re7 Ra8 1/2-1/2

[Event "SEA Games 2025"]

[Site "Bangkok, Thailand"]

[Date "2025.12.19"]

[Round "7"]

[White "Poh Yu Tian"]

[Black "Susanto Megaranto"]

[Result "1-0"]

[WhiteELO "2314"]

[BlackELO "2532"]

1. e4 c5 2. Nf3 Nc6 3. d4 cxd4 4. Nxd4 e5 5. Nb5 a6 6. Nd6+ Bxd6 7. Qxd6 Qf6 8. Qxf6 Nxf6 9. Nc3 h6 10. Be3 d6 11. O-O-O Ke7 12. f3 Be6 13. Be2 Rhd8 14. Rd2 b5 15. b3 Rd7 16. Rhd1 Ne8 17. Kb2 Nc7 18. Bb6 Rb8 19. Bf2 f6 20. h4 Rbd8 21. a4 Rb8 22. axb5 Nxb5 23. Nd5+ Kf7 24. Nb6 Rc7 25. Bxb5 axb5 26. Rxd6 h5 27. Nd7 Bxd7 28. Rxd7+ Rxd7 29. Rxd7+ Kg6 30. Bc5 Nd8 31. Ba7 Ra8 32. Bb6 Ne6 33. Be3 Rb8 34. Re7 Nd8 35. Re8 Kf7 36. Rh8 Nc6 37. Rxb8 Nxb8 38. Ka3 Nc6 39. c4 bxc4 40. bxc4 Ke6 41. Ka4 g6 42. Kb5 Kd6 43. Kb6 Nd8 44. c5+ Kd7 45. Bd2 Nc6 46. Bh6 f5 47. Bg7 fxe4 48. fxe4 Nb4 49. Bxe5 Nc6 50. Bc3 Ne7 51. Kb7 Nc6 52. e5 Nd8+ 53. Kb6 Ne6 54. c6+ Kc8 55. g3 Kb8 56. Kb5 Kc7 57. Ba5+ Kc8 58. Kc4 Ng7 59. Kd5 Nf5 60. e6 1-0

[Event "SEA Games 2025"]

[Site "Bangkok, Thailand"]

[Date "2025.12.19"]

[Round "8"]

[White "Susanto Megaranto"]

[Black "Poh Yu Tian"]

[Result "0-1"]

[WhiteELO "2532"]

[BlackELO "2314"]

1. d4 Nf6 2. Nf3 e6 3. c4 d5 4. Nc3 Bb4 5. e3 O-O 6. Bd3 c5 7. O-O Nc6 8. a3 Bxc3 9. bxc3 b6 10. a4 Ba6 11. cxd5 Bxd3 12. Qxd3 Qxd5 13. Ba3 Rfd8 14. Rfe1 Na5 15. e4 Qc4 16. Qe3 Nb3 17. Rad1 Rac8 18. Bb2 Qxa4 19. h3 cxd4 20. cxd4 Rc2 21. Ba1 Nxa1 22. Rxa1 Qd7 23. Ne5 Qc7 24. Ra3 Rc8 25. Qf4 Rc1 26. Ra1 Rxe1+ 27. Rxe1 h6 28. Kh2 Ne8 29. Ra1 a5 30. Rb1 a4 31. Rxb6 f6 32. Rc6 Qb8 33. Rxc8 Qxc8 34. Nd3 Qc4 35. Qb8 Qc7+ 36. Qxc7 Nxc7 37. Nb4 a3 38. Na2 Kf7 39. Kg3 Nb5 40. d5 exd5 41. exd5 Nc7 42. d6 Nb5 43. d7 Ke7 44. Kg4 g6 45. h4 h5+ 46. Kf4 Kxd7 47. f3 Kd6 48. g4 Nd4 49. Ke4 Kc5 50. Ke3 Kc4 51. Ke4 Ne2 52. f4 hxg4 53. f5 Ng3+ 54. Kf4 Nxf5 55. Kxg4 Ne3+ 56. Kf4 Nd5+ 57. Kg4 Nb4 58. Nc1 Kc3 59. h5 gxh5+ 60. Kxh5 Kb2 61. Ne2 a2 0-1

Saw Lip Chye (1954-2025)

On this Christmas Day, I find myself writing not about celebrating a festivity but about a piece of sober news. Earlier this month, another friend from my Westlands Primary School days passed away. Lawrence Saw Lip Chye was someone I had known from Standard One. His was one of those faces from the very beginning.

We lost contact after our schooldays diverged. I went on to Penang Free School, while he continued at Westlands Secondary. And for many years he slipped out of view, as so many do. Our paths crossed again only in 2018, when I set up a chat group to reconnect with our old primary school friends. By then, almost all of us had retired. Almost, but not Lip Chye.

He was still working, not in Penang but in Ipoh, where he held a senior role in a quarry firm. From what I understand, he was effectively in charge of human resource or operations, armed with an impressive list of safety certifications. He had become indispensable, the kind of man a boss leans on and doesn’t easily let go. It was only early this year that he began seriously thinking about retirement, a wish finally realised in March.

Retirement suited him. He spent time in his garden, went walking around the DO hill behind his home in Bukit Mertajam, and kept himself active on his treadmill. Then, on the eighth of December, the word came. He had been walking on that treadmill, stopped, sat down and died. Sudden. Shocking. No warning.

Lip Chye was the third of my Westlands Primary School friends to pass away this year. Oon Hup, Seng Oo and now, Lip Chye. All 71 years old, all people I had known since 1961 or 1962. When the friendship begins that early, the losses feel less like news and more like a quiet narrowing of the world.

On a day meant for cheer, this is the thought that stays with me.

Li Chun (立春), 2026

Every year, Lì Chūn  (立春), or Jip Chūn (also known as the Entering of Spring, one of many other descriptions) as it is called in Penang Hokkien, sneaks in quietly. In 2026, it falls on 4 February at 5.02am, while most people are still asleep. By the time the sun comes up, spring will have already started. At least, according to the old Chinese way of reckoning.

Back then, farmers didn’t wait to feel the warmth. They prepared their fields because the calendar told them it was time. In many homes, the rice bucket gets topped up at Lì Chūn, a simple gesture, not superstition. Food, like time, moves in cycles. Sometimes abundance starts with the smallest act.

It is also worth remembering that, in older reckoning, Lì Chūn was once regarded as the beginning of the year itself. Before Chinese New Year became the social and festive turning point, the solar cycle held greater authority. Even today, systems like Bāzì still count the year from Lì Chūn, a reminder that the calendar we celebrate and the calendar the heavens follow are not always the same.

So at 5.02am on 04 February 2026, nothing dramatic will happen. But I’ll be doing what I’ve done every year: filling my rice bucket to the brim and sticking a fresh chūn (春) character on its side. It’s a small, habitual act, done without ceremony. By that measure, before the firecrackers of Chinese New Year sound on the 17th of February, the new year will already have begun for me.

I've been writing consistently about Jip Chun in this blog since Year 2007 and if anyone wants to find the historical dates and time, the information is all here:

Li Chun, 2025 
Li Chun, 2024 
Li Chun, 2023 
Li Chun, 2022 
Li Chun, 2021 
Li Chun, 2020 
Li Chun, 2019 
Li Chun, 2018 
Li Chun, 2017 
Li Chun, 2016 
Li Chun, 2015 
Li Chun, 2014 
Li Chun, 2013 
Li Chun, 2012 
Li Chun, 2011 
Li Chun, 2010 
Li Chun, 2009 
Li Chun, 2008 
Li Chun, 2007

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

Dateline: 21 & 22 November 2025. 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, looking over the bird droppings, 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. 

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. 

Indian musicians in the Patan Durbar Square

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

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. 

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.

Sunrise over Nagarkot

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.....

The last survivor

Several weeks ago, I came across an old story by one Natasha Venner-Pack on the R.AGE website on 15 March 2016, almost 10 years ago. The writer had tracked down a senior citizen who was more than willing to share his memories of living through the Second World War. Of course, here in this land, this period would mean the Japanese Occupation of much of South-East Asia. For Malaya, the Japanese military had entered the peninsula through the shores of Kelantan and southern Thailand, and from there, a surprisingly quick advance down the west coast, marching on foot or riding bicycles while aided by air cover that had easily taken out theartillery of the British army. Without these air defences, Penang fell to the invaders without much resistance on 19 December 1941. Here is Natasha's story which I have reproduced in full for completeness: 

Surviving the WWII bombing of Penang

Staring out to sea on Fort Cornwallis, James Jeremiah cuts a lonely figure.

“Before the fighting started, we were so excited to shoot the Japanese. We had never seen war; we had only seen it in the movies,” said Jeremiah. “But the first time I heard a real bomb, I was scared to death.”

That was at the old Bayan Lepas Airport, where Jeremiah witnessed the beginning of the Japanese invasion of Penang. He was 18 at the time, and a member of the Eurasian “E” company of Penang, a volunteer force similar to the British Home Guard.

“We thought the Japanese would fly in from Batu Maung in the south, but they came in through Tanjung Bungah and Batu Ferringhi. I think they knew we were focused on the south.”

The tactic worked. The volunteers mistook the Japanese planes for British fighters, a mistake that almost cost them their lives.

“They turned out to be Japanese Zero fighters. They started bombing and machine gunning us. Shrapnel was flying everywhere. I cannot even describe the fear we had in our hearts,” he said.

Although they were trained to a certain extent, the Volunteer Forces (VF) were not hardened military men.

The invasion

After the bombing, it was only a matter of time before Japanese ground troops arrived.

Even then, the volunteer forces regrouped at their headquarters on Peel Avenue, and did their best to maintain order.

With the British gone and the Japanese at their doorstep, people were looting ruined houses and bodies were strewn everywhere from the bombing.

“We carried the dead bodies away, assisted the wounded and stopped all looters.

“It’s no joke when you’re in that situation – we just didn’t know what to do,” said Jeremiah.

Things quickly got worse when the Japanese arrived. The Volunteer Forces were rounded up, and the Europeans and fair-skinned Eurasians were sent to Singapore to be held as prisoners of war.

“My father had rather dark skin, which I inherited. I think it saved my life!” said Jeremiah.

The remaining VF members were used by the Japanese as guides. Jeremiah’s work ethic as a guide caught the eye of a member of the Kempeitai, the feared Japanese military police.

“Colonel Watanabe took me to his office and asked what work I could do, so I said anything. He asked me to make tea, coffee, polish his boots – things like that.”

A church and a torture chamber

The Kempeitai office was located in the Wesley Methodist Church on Jalan Burma. Although he was a mere office boy, the experience was terrifying.

He still lives on Penang island today, a mere 20 minutes from the church – but he has never gone back to the church in over 70 years, until he brought R.AGE there last month to shoot an episode of The Last Survivors.

“I used to see people being arrested. I don’t know how, but they were ‘interrogated’. I used to hear screams, cries… I couldn’t take it,” he said in the video, which is part of a series documenting the stories of Malaysia’s WWII survivors.

Although the brutality of the Kempeitai has haunted many, including Jeremiah, not all the Japanese were cruel overlords.

Watanabe was educated in the United States, and he saved Jeremiah’s life a few times.

The Japanese would hold “trials” at public spaces – including Padang Kota Lama next to Fort Cornwallis – where their local informants would expose other locals who were working against the Japanese.

“(The informants) wore hoods when they pointed people out. The minute they point at you, you’re finished, gone,” said Jeremiah. “The Japanese would round up the public so the informants could point people out.”

Jeremiah thanks Watanabe for saving him from attending the trials, where he believes he could easily have been singled out for execution. “Watanabe protected me. I was so lucky, he was very good to me.”

Some of the informants flaunted their special privilege with the Japanese, according to Jeremiah.

“They would say ‘don’t mess with us’, so we kept quiet. I remember a famous Eurasian doctor, Doctor J.E. Smith, who was done in by them and, I think, beheaded.”

An act of kindness

Even with Watanabe’s protection, the atrocities being committed at the Kempeitai office was too much for Jeremiah to bear, and he asked to be transferred to the railways. The colonel reluctantly agreed.

Watanabe continued showing kindness to Jeremiah even after he started work as a locomotive driver, putting in a good word to his new boss and General Yamashita himself, the mastermind behind the invasion of Malaya. Yamashita had defeated the combined Australian, British and Indian force of 130,000 soldiers with just 30,000 troops.

“Yamashita was riding the train along with Tadashi Suzuki (an infamous samurai sword-wielding executioner), but I couldn’t understand what they were saying as it was in Japanese,” said Jeremiah. “They noticed that my new boss’ boots were shining, and Watanabe said I was the one who polished them.”

The general made a lasting impression on young Jeremiah, who said the very sight of him made everyone afraid.

“He was very fierce and very dynamic, though very big and chubby. Everyone was afraid. I didn’t dare look him in the eye.”

While many struggled for food during the Occupation, Jeremiah said he was lucky to be paid in both “banana money” – the Japanese currency – and food.

“I used to get about 30 dollars a week, sometimes more. I saved the bread for my parents and if I wanted an egg, I’d ask Watanabe.”

Had he been caught smuggling eggs, the colonel would have beheaded him.

Life before the war

The horrors of the Occupation were a far cry from Jeremiah’s pre-war days.

Jeremiah was rotated around a few places, including Fort Auchry (now a Malaysian army camp), Fort Cornwallis and Batu Maung.

He remembers watching the Europeans and Eurasians boarding ships at Swettenham Pier heading to Singapore, where they believed they would be safe. Winston Churchill had insisted Singapore would not fall.

He was also posted at Batu Maung, a British fort which the Japanese turned into a torture chamber.

He brought the Last Survivors crew there during filming. The original fort remains, but the land is now a privately owned museum-cum-theme park, with plastic “ghosts” hanging everywhere and a paintball field attached.

“Everything has changed,” said Jeremiah with a laugh. “I don’t remember any of this being here!”

Jeremiah spent the rest of the war as a locomotive driver. After the war, he worked at the Batu Ferringhi reservoir, where he would retire as a superintendent.

While he experienced many horrors during the war, something beautiful did come out of it. He met his late wife, a former Miss Thailand, during his time on the railways.

“I travelled all the way to Bangkok after the war to find her,” said Jeremiah with a wide smile.

“All I had was her name, as her letters never had a return address.”

Though he lives on, happily surrounded by his children and grandchildren, Jeremiah said young Malaysians need to find out about their grandparents’ experiences.

“War is something that hurts everyone – it’s not like what you see in the movies. They should find out; they need to be told what happened.”

Today, he has outlived all 18 members of the “E” Company, all five of his siblings, and one of his children.

“All my friends and colleagues are now gone. I am the last survivor.”

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.