The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 3

Reading back over what I wrote in Parts 1 and 2, I realise that I’ve been mentioning all these Nyonya koay rather casually, as though everyone would know what they are. In Penang half a century ago, that might well have been the case. In those days the names were simply part of everyday kitchen talk, especially around Chinese New Year when trays of koay would appear one after another from the steamer or oven.

A typical array of Penang Nyonya koay available commercially today:
(outer ring) serimuka, koay bengkar ubikayu, koay lapeh;
(middle ring) koay bengkar, koay tatai; (inner ring) koay talam

A household like my maternal grandmother’s could easily produce 15 or 20 varieties over several days. Some were meant for the altar, some for visiting relatives and friends, and some simply for the family to enjoy between meals.

Today, a number of these koay can still be found in Penang, though more often at market stalls or specialty shops rather than in home kitchens. Others have quietly slipped out of common memory. So for the benefit of younger readers and perhaps to refresh the memories of older ones, here is a short glossary of the koay I have mentioned, and more!

Note: Traditionalists like the Malacca peranakans will insist on using gula malacca when the recipe calls for it but the more pragmatic Penang Nyonyas generally substitute it with brown sugar.

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Glossary

Huat Koay – Small steamed rice cakes that crack at the top when cooked. The split crown is taken as a sign of prosperity and good fortune.

Tnee Koay – Sticky brown Chinese New Year cake made from glutinous rice flour and brown sugar. Traditionally steamed for hours, sometimes overnight. Will gradually harden over weeks if left untouched. To be enjoyed, the hardened tnee koay is sliced thinly and either steamed and coated with freshly grated coconut, or fried with egg and batter.

Ang Koo – Red tortoise-shaped glutinous rice cake filled with sweet mung bean paste. The tortoise symbolises longevity, although there can be other shapes as well, notably the Chinese gold bar and the peach.

Koay Kochnee – Banana-leaf parcels of glutinous rice dough filled with sweet grated coconut cooked in brown sugar, then steamed until fragrant.

Koay Kochnee Santan – A variation of the koay kochnee where each banana-leaf parcel is steamed with coconut milk that sets into a soft, jelly-like santan coating around the dumpling.

Koay Bengkah – A baked cake of rice flour and coconut, often coloured purple with the bunga telang or yam, with a lightly caramelised golden top. Usually cut into squares or diamonds.

Koay Bengkah Ubikayu – A separate cassava-based version made from grated tapioca (ubi kayu) mixed with santan and sugar, baked until the surface turns golden and the interior remains moist and slightly fibrous.

Koay Talam – Two-layered steamed kueh consisting of a pandan-flavoured base and a soft coconut custard top.

Pulut Tatai – Blue-coloured glutinous rice tinted with the bunga telang and steamed with coconut milk, then pressed into diamond shapes. Often eaten with kaya.

Serimuka – A glutinous rice base topped with a thick pandan custard layer, steamed carefully so the two layers remain distinct.

Koay Lapeh – Nine-layered steamed cake, often alternating pink and white, where each layer is added and steamed in succession. Children like to peel the layers apart before eating.

Koay Kosui – Small brown sugar steamed cakes with a soft, slightly springy texture, typically topped with freshly grated coconut.

Pulot Enti – Small banana-leaf parcels of steamed glutinous rice topped with grated coconut cooked in brown sugar.

Koay Tayap – Thin green pandan crepes folded around grated coconut cooked with brown sugar. Very rarely seen is the white crepe version filled with freshly grated coconut and white sugar.

Apong Bokkua – Soft fermented rice pancakes served with a syrup made from coconut milk and brown sugar. The Malays name this serabai or apom berkuah.

Onde-Onde – Small glutinous rice balls filled with brown sugar syrup and coated with grated coconut.

Koay Balu – Small sponge cakes baked in brass moulds over charcoal, crisp on the outside and soft inside.

Koay Ee – Small glutinous rice balls usually served in sweet ginger syrup. More commonly seen during the Tang Chek or Winter Solstice festival but still remembered in some festive kitchens.

Koay Bangkit – Light, airy coconut cookies made from tapioca flour and coconut milk, pressed into small moulds and baked until crumbly.

Koay Kapek – Chinese New Year love letters! Thin coconut wafers made by pouring a light batter onto a heated brass mould over charcoal, then folded or rolled quickly while still hot. The process requires two people working together, one baking and the other folding or rolling. 

Pineapple Tarts – Short pastry filled with thick pineapple jam; the pineapple symbolises the arrival of prosperity.

Peanut Cookie – Crumbly cookies made from finely ground roasted peanuts, flour and sugar, brushed with egg glaze before baking. Sandy texture and strong peanut aroma, they are common in Penang homes.

Cataract done

So I had my cataract procedure done on my left eye yesterday and I got through it okay. Many thanks to my doctor, Teoh Hian Jin, from Bagan Specialist Centre in Butterworth. I must admit that before the procedure I was mighty anxious and nervous because he had warned me that my iris was rather small and that he might have to use some alternatives to get it to open wider. And true enough, despite several attempts to dilate the eye, he eventually had to use hooks.

I probably wasn’t the perfect patient either. Several times he had to remind me to relax and unclench my jaw and turn my head slightly towards him. In the end, I attempted some basic techniques to calm myself down. 

Maybe I should also explain why I chose to go to him in the first place. I discovered that he is also an Old Free but seven years my junior at Penang Free School, although he isn’t a member of The Old Frees’ Association. Still, that information was good enough for me. I would trust an Old Free any time and in this case my trust certainly wasn’t misplaced. Hian Jin did an exemplary job on me. Now I just have to wait for the world to look a little brighter through that eye!

Cataract

Today's the day. Left eye. Wish me well.

Nursery rhymes

I've written before about my kindergarten days. That particular episode goes back to 1960, when I was six years old. It was my first experience attending kindergarten and it turned out to be quite an eye-opening cultural shock. Until then the only children I really knew were those from my immediate neighbourhood and my cousins scattered across the island. Suddenly there were perhaps 80 or a hundred children all under one roof, learning our ABCs and 123s.

Ten years ago I wrote that the master of the kindergarten was someone I knew only as Mr Poh. Since then a little more has come to light. His name was Poh Thean Poe, and he ran the place, officially known as Seang Tek Road Kindergarten, from 1955 until 1973. By then he had already stepped back from the day-to-day running two years earlier and left for Kota Kinabalu to work in his mother's restaurant. Later he settled in Seremban. That much I know about him.

Music was a big part of my kindergarten days. I still remember those mornings when we were seated upstairs in the two-storey wooden bungalow that housed the school. The teacher would put on colourful 45 rpm records on one of those changeable record players and we listened to nursery rhymes.

I sometimes wonder whether kindergartens today still play these traditional English nursery rhymes. Songs like The Farmer in the Dell, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and London Bridge Is Falling Down. They can still be found easily enough on streaming services like YouTube or Spotify. Recently I have been reacquainting myself with some of them and came across a collection recorded by Oscar Brand. 

Who exactly was he, this Oscar Brand? A practical unknown in this part of the world but Oscar Brand was one of the most prolific figures in the 20th century American folk revival. Born in Winnipeg in 1920 and later based in New York, he built a career that stretched across more than 70 years as a singer, songwriter, author and broadcaster. He recorded nearly 100 albums and wrote hundreds of songs, ranging from sea shanties and patriotic ballads to political campaign songs and his famous, or perhaps notorious, Bawdy Songs and Backroom Ballads series.

Brand's recordings covered an astonishing range of material. On one hand he recorded gentle nursery rhymes for children. On the other he was equally willing to document the more mischievous side of folk tradition.

That series was Brand’s cheerful attempt to preserve a part of folk tradition that polite society often preferred to ignore. Folk songs were not always wholesome campfire
material. Sailors, soldiers and travellers had been singing slightly risqué verses for centuries, usually in taverns or other less respectable surroundings. Brand simply gathered a number of these songs together and recorded them more or less in the spirit in which they had originally circulated.

My copy of Volume Three in the series was given to me by Anwar Fazal, that well known figure in Penang's civic and cultural life. The songs are performed in a straightforward folk style with little more than Brand’s voice and guitar. Despite the title, the humour is mostly based on suggestion and wordplay rather than anything explicit. That probably explains how such songs managed to be recorded at all in that period.

When these records first appeared in the 1950s they caused a certain amount of fuss. Some countries even banned them for a time, which of course only made them more attractive to collectors. Brand himself always maintained that these songs were part of genuine folk heritage. In his view they deserved to be documented.

Brand was also the long-time host of the American radio programme Folksong Festival on WNYC. The programme began in 1945 and ran for more than 70 years, earning a Guinness World Records citation as the longest running radio show with the same host. Throughout his career Brand championed both traditional and contemporary folk music, giving early exposure to performers such as Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell. He remained active almost until his death in 2016 at the age of 96.

Listening to some of his recordings today, especially those old nursery rhymes, brings back faint memories of those mornings in the wooden bungalow on Seang Tek Road. It is curious how a few simple songs on a record can open a small window into a very distant part of one's childhood.

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye

Dateline: 6 December 2025. Waking refreshed the next morning, we checked out of Hotel Africa Avenue after breakfast and began what would be our final full day in Delhi. The original programme indicated a visit to Lutyens’ Delhi, that grand imperial layout conceived in the early 20th century. However, the roads were closed due to visiting foreign dignitaries. Our coach could only crawl through the roads, offering us a moving glimpse rather than the intended walk.

Still, we saw the imposing sweep of the India Gate. Beneath its 42-metre-high arch now stands a 28-foot granite statue of Subhas Chandra Bose, installed in 2022 in the canopy that once housed a statue of King George V. Designed by Edwin Lutyens and completed in 1931, the India Gate commemorates more than 70,000 soldiers of the British Indian Army killed in the First World War and the Third Anglo-Afghan War. Its resemblance to the Arc de Triomphe is unmistakable.

Yet it was Bose who held my attention. A pivotal figure in the independence movement, he led the Indian National Army (INA) against British rule during the Second World War. The name was not unfamiliar to me. I have written about him before, particularly the INA’s activities in Malaya. I told our surprised guide how the INA had used my alma mater, the Penang Free School, as a training ground during the Japanese Occupation. He seemed taken aback that someone from our group could recount such details about one of India’s national heroes.

From imperial grandeur, we proceeded to Gandhi Smriti, formerly Birla House. It was here that Mahatma Gandhi spent the final 144 days of his life, and where he was assassinated on 30 January 1948. The museum preserves the atmosphere of those last days.

Born in 1869 in Gujarat, Gandhi studied law in London before forging his political conscience in South Africa, where he spent 21 years advocating for Indian civil rights after being thrown off a train for refusing to leave a “whites-only” compartment. Returning to India in 1915, he transformed the Indian National Congress into a mass movement. His philosophy of Satyagraha or non-violent resistance reshaped the struggle for independence and inspired global leaders such as Martin Luther King Jr and Nelson Mandela.

At Gandhi Smriti, a simple concrete path marked with footprints traced his final walk to the prayer ground. A modest pavilion marked the exact spot where he fell. Inside his preserved living quarters, we saw the sparse belongings that defined his life: spectacles, a walking stick, a spinning wheel, low writing desk. Outside, pillars inscribed with his teachings stand among traditional symbols such as “Om” and the ancient swastika in its original Indian context of auspiciousness.

In the afternoon we visited the National Museum. With approximately 200,000 artefacts spanning over 5,000 years, it was less a museum than a condensed archive of Indian civilisation. Walking through its galleries felt like compressing millennia into a single afternoon.

The Indus Valley Civilisation section alone contained more than 3,500 objects excavated from sites such as Harappa and Mohenjo-daro. There were sculptures from the Maurya, Shunga, Kushan and Gupta periods, coins and armour, textiles and jewellery, miniature paintings and manuscripts. Each gallery offered a different chapter in India’s long history.

But it was the section devoted to the Buddha that drew us all in the end. The most fitting end to our Indian journey. Here were sacred relics of the Buddha excavated from sites such as Piprahwa in Uttar Pradesh. These relics, believed by many scholars to be among the corporeal remains distributed after the Buddha’s cremation in the 5th century BC, were displayed in a specially designed chamber meant to evoke the serenity of a stupa. 

A notice on the wall invited visitors to pay homage to the relics: 

"Around 463 BCE at Kushinagar, Lord Buddha passed away or achieved Mahaparinirvana at the age of eighty. The residents of Kushinagara cremated his body with ceremonies befitting a Universal King (chakravartin). Buddha's relics were divided into eight portions and distributed among eight kingdoms. The sacred relics were commemorated into eight different stupas. 

The relics housed in this hall are excavated from Piprahwa in the Siddharth Nagar District of Uttar Pradesh, an erstwhile part of the ancient city of Kapilavastu. The discovery of one inscribed casket in 1898 by W.C Peppe refers to the relics of the Buddha and his clan, 'Sakya'. Further excavations conducted by the Archaeological Survey of India in 1971-1977 discovered two more un-inscribed steatite caskets containing twelve sacred relics in the bigger casket and ten sacred relics in the smaller casket. 

National Museum, New Delhi humbly invites the devotees and museum visitors for paying homage to the sacred relics of Gautama Buddha."

Here, the atmosphere was understandably hushed. Visitors instinctively lower their voices. One does not merely look; one contemplates. Our Chief Abbott signalled everyone for a session of meditation. Even visitors from outside our group joined in. Later, there were other Buddhist groups that arrived to perform their own sessions.

There were exquisite sculptures representing different artistic traditions: the serene sandstone Buddhas of the Gupta period, often regarded as the classical ideal of Indian Buddhist art; the Gandhara sculptures influenced by Hellenistic forms, where the Buddha’s robe fell in Greco-Roman folds; and Mathura figures carved in the red sandstone of India. Each style reflected how Buddhism travelled, adapted and absorbed regional influences.

The museum also displayed fragments of ancient stupas, votive tablets and inscriptions in various scripts. Together they charted not only Buddhism’s spread but also the evolution of artistic language across centuries. For us who had earlier stood beneath the Qutb Minar contemplating the rise of medieval powers, it was humbling to be reminded of an even older spiritual current that had once radiated from this land across Asia.

By late afternoon, the collective weight of the centuries seemed to have settled gently upon us. Once again, there was that familiar sensation of information and visual overload. Delhi had offered us monuments of empire, places of martyrdom and relics of enlightenment. All in a single day.

Within hours, we would truly be on our way home. As I reflected on our 16-day journey from Kathmandu to Delhi, what I had initially thought would be a long trip but which now felt unexpectedly too brief, I realised how much there was still to absorb. Not merely the sights, but the stories behind them, which I hope I have been able to do justice to here in my blog. Perhaps that is what travel ultimately offers: not simply movement across geography but a quiet passage across time.

Previous:

Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi
Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipuri

Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats
Nepal-India Day 11: Varanasi deer park
Nepal-India Day 9 and 10: Bodhgaya to Varanasi  

Nepal-India Days 9 and 10: Bodhgaya
Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Nalanda  

Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Gridhakura
Nepal-India Day 7: Vaishali
Nepal-India Day 6: Kushinagar
Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti 
Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti 
Nepal-India Day 4: The sala tree 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 
Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Belly dancing music

Some years ago a rather unusual record came into my possession. It was 51 Belly Dancer Favorites by Gus Vali and his orchestra. I did not buy it myself. The LP was given to me by Anwar Fazal, a well-known figure in Penang’s civic and cultural life.

Anwar Fazal, as many people know, has spent decades involved in consumer, environmental and public interest movements. He helped found organisations such as the Consumers Association of Penang and played a role in several international networks dealing with health and consumer protection. At some point along the way this curious record found its way into my hands through him. The LP has stayed in my collection ever since.

The album itself is a relic from the early 1960s when Middle Eastern themed music had a small but noticeable presence in the Western record market. The title sounds grand enough but it is really a clever bit of marketing. There are not 51 separate tracks. Instead the record consists of six long medleys, each one stitching together fragments of many melodies from across the eastern Mediterranean and the Middle East.

Vali was a Greek-American clarinetist and the clarinet is very much the dominant voice throughout the record. It weaves through those unmistakable oriental scales while the rhythm section keeps things moving along. Around it is a mixture of instruments like the oud, Middle Eastern percussion such as the doumbek and the occasional support of a Western bass and drum kit.

The medleys are grouped loosely by region. One sequence moves through Turkish and Greek themes, another brings in Israeli melodies and elsewhere the music shifts toward Arabic material. Each tune appears briefly before the next one takes over. The idea was not to dwell on any particular melody but to keep the music flowing without interruption. But to someone like me who had never been exposed to Middle Eastern music before, the transitions were a bit too subtle. The melodies came and went so quickly that I could hardly tell where one ended and the next began. To my ears, they all sounded much the same.

That format made sense for the setting in which this sort of music was often used. These medleys could accompany belly dancing performances in restaurants or nightclubs where the dancer might want to change tempo or mood without stopping the music every few minutes.

Listening to the record today, however, one cannot help reflecting how sobering the timing feels. The melodies come from a part of the world that is once again dominating the news headlines. Since 28 February 2026 the Middle East has been engulfed in another violent chapter, with the United States and Israel now openly at war with Iran. The same region whose folk melodies once circulated harmlessly on lounge records is again a theatre of bombs, missiles and political brinkmanship.

When this album was produced, the music was packaged as a kind of exotic entertainment for Western listeners. Few people probably thought very deeply about the cultures or histories behind those melodies. Yet here they are again, echoing faintly from an old LP, reminding us that the Middle East is far more than the grim news images we see today.

Perhaps that is why I keep the record. It is not particularly rare or musically profound but it carries a small chain of associations: a gift from Anwar Fazal, a glimpse of a musical tradition far from our shores and now a reminder that the same region continues to shape the world’s anxieties. A rather unlikely record to sit quietly in a Penang collection, but there it is.

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 2

When Part 1 ended, the kitchen had quietened down after the midnight steaming of tnee koay, the trays of huat koay and ang koo lined up, and I had been safely sent outside to avoid “spoiling” the delicate process. That was only the beginning. A full Penang Nyonya Chinese New Year table in the 1950s and 1960s was never just a few signature koay; it was a display of 15 to 20 varieties, some now almost forgotten.

Among them were pulot tatai, glutinous rice coloured by the clitoria flower, then steamed with coconut milk and cut into squares before eaten with kaya; serimuka, with a glutinous rice base and pandan custard top; and koay lapeh, the colourful dual-coloured, nine-layered steamed koay that children loved to peel apart layer by layer. The koay kosui, small steamed koay topped generously with grated coconut, was also common. Alongside them would be koay kochnee which was glutinous rice dumplings filled with sweet coconut and brown sugar, carefully wrapped in banana leaf before steaming so that the fragrance of the leaf infused the dough. Koay tayap, thin pandan crepes filled with grated coconut, would often make an appearance. Even apong bokkua or the onde-onde, small glutinous rice balls with molten brown sugar, might appear if there was time.

Preparing these required taboo rituals to be strictly observed. A child like me would always be sent outside the kitchen while the more delicate koay was steamed. A dropped utensil was considered a sign to pause and restart to avoid “offending” the koay; and in one instance, a steamer lid had to be lifted clockwise, never counter=clockwise, to encourage proper rising. No one knew precisely why, but the rules were fastidiously followed.

The koay for visitors often included pineapple tarts, peanut cookies, koay bangkit and small baked items like koay balu. These were sweet, delicate and required careful handling, especially with the coconut-based varieties, which could dry or curdle if steamed too long or stirred too roughly.

By the end of the preparation, trays would cover every flat surface in the kitchen and hallway. The aromas of pandan, coconut, sugar and toasted flour mixed into a festive perfume. Only then would my grandmother allow herself a small rest, knowing that the household was ready for the 15 days of Chinese New Year visits, offerings at the altar and the family gatherings.

It is tempting to think of these koay simply as food, but they were more than that. They carried memory, patience, skill and the quiet discipline of the kitchen. The taboos, the careful layering, the repeated steaming and pressing were all part of the dance of the festival, handed down over decades. Even as supermarkets and shops now offer quick substitutes, there is something in the deliberate care of those old kitchens that cannot be replicated.

When I see a tray of huat koay or a slice of koay talam, I can almost hear my grandmother's exhortations: “Don’t quarrel while steaming,” “Don’t taste until it’s ready,” “Move the tray carefully.” These are not just rules but echoes of a household that measured time, care and love through the preparation of food. In those days, Chinese New Year was as much about ritual, patience and attention to small details as it was about celebration. And that, more than anything, is what I remember most vividly.

There'll be a Part 3 to this story, in which I shall give a glossary of the Nyonya koay that I know. 

Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi

Dateline: 5 December 2025. The journey from Jaipur to Delhi took close to six hours, a long stretch of highway that gradually thickened with traffic as we neared the capital. By the time we entered the city, the afternoon sun had begun to mellow, casting a warm light that seemed to soften even the concrete flyovers and busy intersections. There was no pause for rest. The Qutb Minar was our first destination in Delhi.

Stepping into the complex felt like stepping back into time measured by centuries. The grounds opened wide and there it stood, the Minar itself, which rose in red sandstone against a pale sky, radiating warmth in the late afternoon light.

Construction began in 1199 under Qutb al-Din Aibak, founder of the Delhi Sultanate, and was later completed and repaired by successive rulers after lightning damaged its upper levels. Its five storeys remained clearly distinct. The lower tiers were more intricately carved with bands of Arabic calligraphy wrapped around the stone. Higher up, the surface became plainer, the ornamentation less dense.

Our tour guide, while explaining dynasties and dates, mentioned the name of a Sufi master connected with the early Sultanate period. Unfortunately, I cannot now remember the name he mentioned. Information overload. But the reference lingered. The Minar is commonly described as a victory tower where power was proclaimed with each new ruler. Yet the Sufis of that era were preaching something altogether different: humility, inwardness, love of the Divine beyond formal authority.

At the first opportunity, I mentioned the Persian poet Rumi whose verses on longing and union continued to resonate across centuries. And I confessed my long-standing admiration for Omar Khayyam whose quatrains, hovering between faith and scepticism, have always appealed to my temperament. The guide looked mildly surprised.

We could not climb its 379 internal steps since access has long been closed. At one point, two guards arrived to open the door briefly to go in and that was that. That was as close as we would get. From ground level, however, its scale was overwhelming enough. It did indeed feel like a vertical declaration etched into the skyline.

From there we wandered into the remains of the Quwwat-ul-Islam Mosque. Built in the late 12th century, it is considered the first mosque in Delhi. What struck me most were the pillars. Many had been repurposed from demolished Hindu and Jain temples. Carvings of bells, floral motifs and faint deities still lingered on their surfaces. One civilisation building on top of another. The vast stone screen of arches at the mosque’s façade seemed an attempt to assert a newer Islamic architectural identity upon earlier foundations.

Further within stood the Alai Darwaza, built in 1311 by Alauddin Khalji. Its proportions were precise, its red sandstone walls inlaid with white marble calligraphy and geometric patterns. It is said to be among the earliest examples in India of true arches and a true dome constructed with advanced engineering techniques. In the afternoon light, the contrast between red and white was luminous, almost delicate despite the solidity of the structure.

Nearby was the tomb of Iltutmish, the second Sultan of Delhi. Its exterior was plain, almost austere. Inside, however, the carvings were intricate with geometric patterns and calligraphic inscriptions etched deeply into sandstone. Not far away, the Tomb of Imam Zamin, a 16th-century addition from the Mughal period, offered yet another shift in tone. Its white marble dome and fine jali lattice windows contrasted with the rugged grandeur of the earlier buildings.

The complex was not merely a collection of monuments. It was a story told across eight centuries covering conquests and consolidation, destruction and adaptation, ambition and artistry. The Minar may dominate the skyline, but the surrounding structures give it context. Together they form a chronicle of Delhi’s long, long past.

From the Qutb Minar, we were returned rather abruptly to present-day realities. Some shopping was in order, and we were taken to a Pekoe Tips Tea outlet. While the others browsed shelves of neatly packed tins and fragrant blends, I slipped outside for a moment. The moon had already risen. It was one day past full, no longer perfectly round, but still luminous enough to command attention. After an afternoon immersed in centuries-old stone, that familiar orb felt reassuring and reminding me of home.

That evening we checked into the Hotel Africa Avenue. After the impressive accommodations in Bodhgaya, Varanasi and Jaipur, this Delhi hotel felt noticeably smaller. A little cramped and somewhat spartan, the furnishings simple and tired, the room lacking the polish of earlier stays. Yet it was clean, with amenities and the bed was comfortable enough. At that late stage of the journey, comfort mattered more than aesthetics.

The next morning we would be checking out. This would be our final night in India. And as I laid there, I thought back of our journey from Kathmandu to Delhi and thinking how much we had accomplished on this short trip of 16 days. Within 24 hours, we would be leaving for hime, carrying with us this story.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Previous:
Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur

Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats
Nepal-India Day 11: Varanasi deer park
Nepal-India Day 9 and 10: Bodhgaya to Varanasi  

Nepal-India Days 9 and 10: Bodhgaya
Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Nalanda  

Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Gridhakura
Nepal-India Day 7: Vaishali
Nepal-India Day 6: Kushinagar
Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti 
Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti 
Nepal-India Day 4: The sala tree 
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu 
Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Full moon over Jaipur

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 1

In the days of old leading up to Chinese New Year, my maternal grandmother would turn our kitchen into a small koay workshop. We were all staying in Seang Tek Road then. My mother and her sister worked beside their mother, measuring rice flour, grating coconuts and occasionally squeezing out the santan, and cutting banana leaves into neat pieces. I was normally chased out of the kitchen. The warning was always the same: don’t open your mouth and say anything, or the koay might not turn out properly.

Some of their work took place late at night. I remember especially the steaming of the tnee koay, which would start well past my 10 o'clock bedtime. By morning, the koay would be ready, all warm, sticky and with a faint golden surface sheen.

This was long before there were supermarkets in Penang. In those days, a Nyonya household made all its festival koay at home. For several days, the kitchen became a small workshop of rice flour, coconut milk, brown sugar and banana leaves, with trays of freshly baked or steamed koay appearing one after another on the wooden table.

Some of the koay were unmistakably associated with the Chinese New Year. One of the most prominent was the huat koay, which are steamed pink rice cakes that cracked open at the top like blossoming flowers. This name carried the hopeful meaning of prosperity and every family wanted them to rise well in the steamer. If the huat koay split neatly into four petals, it was taken as a sign of good fortune for the coming year.

Another was the tnee koay, the sticky brown Chinese New Year koay made from glutinous rice flour and sugar. I remember vividly how the steaming would start before midnight. The open kitchen was warm with the rising steam. By morning, the tnee koay would be ready, all warm and sticky with a golden hue on the surface and releasing a deep caramel fragrance. 

And then there were the red tortoise-shaped ang koo, moulded from glutinous rice dough tinted a bright, auspicious red and filled with sweet mung bean paste. Pressed into carved wooden moulds before steaming, they bore the patterned shell of a tortoise which was a symbol of longevity. 

But the New Year table was never limited to just these three. My grandmother’s repertoire extended far beyond them, reflecting generations of Nyonya culinary tradition. There was koay kochnee, a coconut-rich glutinous rice koay, sometimes made richer still, set in santan; koay bengkah ubikayu, a baked tapioca koay with a golden crust; and koay talam, the familiar two-layered pandan-and-coconut custard koay.

Preparing all these koay required not just skill but adherence to a set of kitchen taboos. When making huat koay, quarrels and arguments were strictly forbidden. Sharp words, my grandmother would say, would stop the koay from opening. With tnee koay, the batter had to be stirred steadily and without interruption. Children were sent outside or quietly watched. I was always barred from the kitchen while the steaming went on. Even lifting the steamer lid had its own rules: clockwise only, never counter-clockwise, to encourage proper rising. Sweeping the kitchen, tasting the batter too early, or sudden noises were all said to disturb the delicate rhythm of the koay.

By the time Chinese New Year arrived, the kitchen shelves would be lined with trays and covered plates. Some of the koay were destined for the household altars, others for visiting relatives. The adults had the quiet satisfaction of seeing all those trays filled with perfectly formed, fragrant and colourful koay, making the long preparations worthwhile.

Today, many of these koay can still be found in Penang, though increasingly in markets and specialty stalls rather than home kitchens. The old processes of grating the coconuts and layering the batter, and the quiet discipline in the kitchen have disappeared into memory. But the smell of freshly steamed huat koay or the sight of a tray of glossy ang koo can still take me back, almost instantly, to that busy kitchen in Seang Tek Road and to the care that went into every piece.

There is more to tell about the koay for visitors, the full spread of the festive table and some of the rarer Nyonya treats now almost forgotten. That, and a few more of the curious taboos that surrounded them. I'll explore them in Part 2.

The "maha" word

Over the past week, social media has been filled with posts about attempts to contact this person of interest. Opinions have tended to be very one-sided and why shouldn’t they be, when the authorities have deployed such heavy resources to trace the whereabouts of someone who could be as insignificant as a gnat?

I don’t normally like to add more noise to what is already a very noisy space, but in this instance, a commentary piece from the Facebook account of The Coverage Media, one paragraph caught my eye:

"In this country, opportunities seem reserved not for the 'Maha Miskin' (extremely poor) or 'Maha Genius' (exceptional talents), but for the 'Maha Entitle' (entitled elite) and 'Maha Tongkat' (those relying on the crutches of affirmative policies)."

Maha Miskin. Maha Genius. Maha Entitle. Maha Tongkat. Four “maha” categories to describe the polarisation in this country. No prizes for guessing who belongs in the latter two categories.

My disclaimer is that The Coverage Media is one of Malaysia’s fast-growing social news websites where one can find some of the most widely discussed news and issues regardless of whether they ultimately prove to be authentic or not. So don’t accept everything you read there at face value, okay? Disclaimer aside, this is the original piece. Go find the "maha" word there:

Anwar's Malaysia: Failing the Maha Genius, Rewarding the Maha Entitle - Malaysia Doesn't Deserve Patriots Like James Chai

Malaysia, under Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim, does not deserve dedicated patriots like James Chai.

As a Malaysian Chinese student who achieved 12A1s in his SPM exams, James was denied a scholarship despite his exceptional academic record.

This is a story that repeats itself every year for thousands of talented, underprivileged students from non-Bumiputera communities.

In this country, opportunities seem reserved not for the "Maha Miskin" (extremely poor) or "Maha Genius" (exceptional talents), but for the "Maha Entitle" (entitled elite) and "Maha Tongkat" (those relying on crutches of affirmative policies).

Two years ago, an Indian student bravely asked Anwar about implementing meritocracy in university admissions during a dialogue session.

Instead of a thoughtful response, she was met with a harsh rebuke that left her visibly traumatized.

Everyone in Malaysia pays taxes, yet the funds collected to build public universities make it disproportionately difficult for individuals like James to access higher education.

If Anwar redirected resources from high-profile international engagements—such as the criticized RM200 million aid pledge to Palestine amid local economic pressures—these could fund scholarships for all deserving poor and brilliant Malaysian youths.

Such investments would empower them to contribute to nation-building, rather than fueling brain drain.

Despite the system's failures, James Chai excelled abroad.

He graduated as a top law student with first-class honors from Queen Mary University of London and earned an MSc in Criminology and Criminal Justice from the University of Oxford. He also topped Malaysia's Certificate of Legal Practice exam.

Thousands of similar cases occur annually: bright minds overlooked at home, thriving overseas.

With his qualifications and expertise in policy, AI governance, and economics, James could easily command a minimum salary of £7,000 per month in the UK—equivalent to about RM37,000 at current exchange rates.

Yet, defying expectations, James returned to serve Malaysia.

He joined the Economy Ministry as a special officer to Rafizi Ramli on a two-year contract, earning no more than RM3,700 monthly—a staggering 10-fold pay cut.

In return, James was instrumental in organizing the KL20 Summit, a landmark event aimed at elevating Kuala Lumpur to a top-20 global startup hub by 2030.

The summit attracted billions in potential investments, including deals with 12 international venture capital firms and high-tech companies, projecting over RM500 billion in value for Malaysia's startup ecosystem by 2030.

Do we even deserve public servants like him?

James's humility shines through his lifestyle: he owns only an old Proton Persona 1.6 worth RM12,000, choosing poverty over personal gain for the sake of national service.

His only "mistake"? His father isn't Anwar Ibrahim.

If he were James Chai bin Anwar Ibrahim, the narrative might differ entirely.

This echoes Anwar's controversial move to sideline Rafizi Ramli as PKR deputy president, paving the way for his daughter, Nurul Izzah Anwar—a decision that raised questions about nepotism and led to both James and Rafizi resigning.

Post-resignation, James briefly assisted ARM Holdings—a UK-based semiconductor giant—in a two-month transitional role, with no shares, directorship, high position, kickbacks, or conflicts of interest.

Everything complied with rules, laws, and regulations.

Yet, the Malaysian Anti-Corruption Commission (MACC) is now treating him like an international criminal, issuing a public search notice and probing a RM1.1 billion government deal with ARM that he helped coordinate.

This is not a country for people like James Chai.

It's why Malaysia faces a brain drain of nearly 2 million talented individuals—1.86 million according to recent estimates, or 5.5% of the working-age population, double the global average.

While the government claims a shift to "brain circulation" with returnee programs, the exodus continues as top brains flee a system that fails them.

Corporate mafias remain untouchable, while innocent, highly qualified Malaysians like James are targeted.