Dateline: 3 December 2025. What did we do in Agra? The more honest question is: what does every visitor to Agra ever do? It is not that the city lacks other monuments or history. There are tombs, forts and reminders of empire scattered across its landscape. Yet for most visitors, there is really only one destination that matters. The Taj Mahal. The oft-repeated love story of Shah Jahan and his Mumtaz Mahal has eclipsed almost everything else.
On the way there, our coach rolled past the Agra Fort. Its red sandstone ramparts stretched long and unyielding in the morning light, solid and self-assured. I was aware that Shah Jahan had spent his final years imprisoned here. He had been locked up by his own son, Aurangzeb. From somewhere inside, he must have gazed across the Yamuna river towards the white marble tomb of Mumtaz. We did not stop. The schedule did not allow it. The fort slipped by our windows.
Security at the Taj Mahal was tight. Bags scanned, pockets checked. It felt almost airport-like. There was something slightly ironic about submitting to metal detectors before entering a monument built as a declaration of love, but perhaps that is simply the reality of the modern world. When a structure becomes a global symbol, protection becomes part of its story.
As we stepped through the main gateway, the Taj Mahal revealed itself gradually, framed by the great arch before opening fully into view. I had seen countless photographs over the years, yet the actual sight of it standing at the end of the long reflecting pool felt different. The dome rose with assurance. The four minarets stood at the corners.
It was magnificent. That word is often overused, but here it feels earned. If any monument deserves a place on one’s bucket list, this would be it.
Built between 1631 and 1653, the Taj Mahal was commissioned by Shah Jahan in memory of his wife Mumtaz Mahal, who died during childbirth in 1631. It was widely regarded as the finest example of Mughal architecture: a harmonious blend of Persian symmetry, Islamic calligraphy and Indian craftsmanship. Recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983, it stands not only as a mausoleum, but as a statement of aesthetic ambition.
The sky that day, however, was a hazy pale blue. Not dramatic nor postcard-perfect. A thin veil of pollution softened the edges of the marble. I could not help imagining what it must have looked like in the 17th century, under a clear, untainted sky. That white dome would have been set against a deep blue expanse. No industrial haze. No modern residue hanging in the air.
As we approached, the details became more apparent. The pietra dura inlay work of semi-precious stones shaped into intricate floral motifs revealed a level of craftsmanship that photographs cannot fully convey. From a distance, the structure appeared simple. Up close, it was anything but.
There are familiar legends surrounding the Taj. The story that Shah Jahan ordered the artisans killed or their hands severed to prevent replication. Historians agree this is a myth, unsupported by credible evidence. Another tale speaks of a planned Black Taj across the Yamuna as Shah Jahan’s own tomb. Again, no solid archaeological proof. These stories persist perhaps because the monument itself feels larger than ordinary history. It invites embellishment.
Inside the mausoleum, the cenotaphs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan were beneath the great dome, while their actual graves were in a lower chamber. The interior was dim, the air cooler. Voices echoed softly and guards gently kept visitors moving. No photography was allowed inside.
I tried to imagine a moonless night in Shah Jahan’s time. No electric glare. No sodium lamps staining the horizon. The Milky Way stretching clearly overhead, the constellations easily identifiable. In such darkness, the Taj would stand in silhouette, its dome interrupting a sky dense with stars. Humanity beneath an immense universe.
Eventually, we turned away and made our way back through the gates, rejoining the present with its crowds and security checks. The Taj Mahal remained behind us. From Agra, our next destination was Jaipur, some 240 kilometres away. Another long ride of nearly five hours lay ahead. By the time we arrived, night had already settled. We checked into the Radisson City Centre Jaipur, our home for the next two nights, the image of white marble beneath a hazy sky still in our mind.
Next:
Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur
Before Chris de Burgh became synonymous with one particular ballad, he had already spent more than a decade recording and touring. He signed with A&M Records in 1974 but his early albums didn't trouble the UK or US charts. Far Beyond These Castle Walls and Spanish Train and Other Stories were built around strange narrative songs, such as trains that argued with the devil, or spacemen who visited at Christmas, which were hardly the sort of material competing with disco or straightforward pop. Yet they found followers.
Through the late 1970s he kept releasing albums, slowly refining the sound while retaining that habit for telling a story within a song. By the early 1980s his work became more polished, more aligned with mainstream pop-rock. The Getaway brought him proper chart entries in the UK and the US. “Don’t Pay the Ferryman” even entered the Billboard Hot 100.
By the time he recorded Into the Light, he was already well established, but he still lacked a truly universal hit. That changed with "The Lady in Red," a simple ballad about a husband remembering how his wife looked when they first met and seeing her anew years later. The song reached No. 1 in 47 countries and sold more than eight million copies. The momentum carried the album to No. 2 in the UK, his first studio release to enter the Top 10 there, and into the US Top 25. Not bad for a story-teller.
Side 1:Last night, Fire on the water, The ballroom of romance, The lady in red, Say goodbye to it all Side 2:The spirit of man, Fatal hesitation, One word (straight to the heart), For Rosanna, The leader, The vision, What about me?
This would probably be the best-ever advertisement for Penang in a very long while. Maybe even the best ever. I’m referring to the short, 11-minute independent film Sandiwara, featuring Malaysia’s Oscar-winning Michelle Yeoh playing five different characters in a story woven along the streets and food centres of Penang.
Maybe a month or two ago, there was a brief Facebook posting saying that Michelle Yeoh had been spotted filming at the Red Garden along Leith Street in George Town, Penang. She was all dressed up in various ways. But very little noise about it. No big announcements. No press excitement. Just a sighting. At that time, I don’t think many of us knew what exactly was going on.
Then last week, I read that Sandiwara would premiere at the Berlin International Film Festival on 13 February 2026. Berlin. That was when I realised this was not some small side project.
The film was directed by Sean Baker, the Oscar-winning director of Anora. The same Sean Baker who shot Tangerine on an iPhone years ago. The same one known for telling very human, street-level stories. And here he was, quietly coming to Penang and shooting a short film on an iPhone again. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
Apparently it was done in a guerilla style. Two days of shooting with a small crew. iPhone cameras used so they could blend in, which made sense. Imagine trying to move around Penang's heritage zone with an A-list global star like Michelle Yeoh. The project would have attracted half the island.
What surprised me most was that Michelle Yeoh agreed to do this. After winning her Oscar, she could choose any big Hollywood production. Big budgets. Big sets. Instead, she came home and played five characters -- a food critic (and I must admit, in that role she carried a hint of the same quiet authority she had in Crazy Rich Asians), a hawker, a waitress, a singer and even a modern-day vlogger -- all moving through the same Penang streets and food centres we know so well. An experimental short film set not in grand studios but amidst hawker stalls and heritage five-foot ways. Everything within Penang’s UNESCO World Heritage zone. These are streets we walk past every day and take for granted.
The title Sandiwara means drama or theatrical performance. So perhaps that is the idea. Five characters, five different roles. A food critic judging. A hawker cooking. A waitress serving. A singer performing. A vlogger documenting. In a place like Malaysia, identity is never just about one race. We consist of Chinese, Malay, Indian, Baba Nyonya, Eurasian and others. Both modern and traditional. Both local and global. Maybe that was what they were exploring. I’m guessing here, but it felt like this to me.
Sean Baker himself described the film as a “love letter to Penang.” But he also said that before he could deliver a love letter, he had to fall in love with Penang first. He spent about nine days here before shooting, just immersing himself in our culture. He talked about how inspiring the city was. How he could feel the love people have for the food. And that food culture became central to the film. That part made me smile because understanding Penang doesn’t start with brochures. It starts with the hawker stalls.
What struck me was that this wasn't a tourism commercial. It was not a state-produced promotional video. It was an Oscar-winning director choosing to tell a story here with an Oscar-winning Malaysian actress, and premiering it at one of the biggest film festivals in the world. We spend so much time talking about promoting Penang. Campaigns, slogans, branding exercises and then suddenly, boom! Something like this happens. And it may do more for Penang’s cultural standing than years of official marketing.
I don’t think we quite fathom what this means. How many Malaysian stories reach a global stage like Berlin? How often is Penang presented not as an exotic postcard but as a living, breathing place worthy of serious cinema?
And this was shot on an iPhone. That detail is important. Sean Baker has always said he values autonomy and creative control. He makes independent films because he doesn’t want stories dictated by agendas. So this choice fits him perfectly. After winning the highest honours in cinema, he goes back to a stripped-down method. Almost to say the story matters more than the equipment.
For Penang, this is not a small thing. Yet I have not read very much reaction from the Penang state government or the Exco in charge of tourism. Maybe I missed it. If I did, I stand corrected. But if not, perhaps we are too used to looking outward for validation that we sometimes miss it when it arrives. Because this, an 11-minute film called Sandiwara, shot quietly in our streets, starring Michelle Yeoh, directed by Sean Baker, premiering in Berlin, this feels significant. It feels like Penang being seen. And for that alone, I can only say thank you.
Dateline: 1 and 2 December 2025. History was never my favourite subject in school. Dates and dynasties went in one ear and out the other. I could barely remember who conquered whom. Yet one name stayed with me for reasons I cannot explain: Benares. Our teacher spoke of it in slightly hushed tones, as if it were older than everything else we were studying. Only much later did I realise that Benares was Varanasi, also called Kashi, the City of Light. Same place, different names.
With the pilgrimage sites now behind us, we found ourselves easing into a more touristy rhythm. After Sarnath, we returned to Varanasi in the evening to witness the Ganga Aarti at Dashashwamedh Ghat. That is the full name: Ganga Aarti, the offering of light to Mother Ganga. It is performed nightly, a carefully choreographed ceremony of fire, bells and chanting. According to legend, Lord Brahma performed a ten-horse sacrifice there, hence the name Dashashwamedh. Myth and history intertwine freely in this city and no one seems particularly bothered about separating them.
We took electric rickshaws part of the way. The scooters buzzed through centuries-old narrow lanes, their small headlights barely pushing back the darkness. It felt slightly clandestine, as if we were peering into the private lives of residents in the older veins of the city. Shops were still open. We caught quick, unguarded glimpses of nightly routines.
But once we reached the area near PDR Mall along Godowliya–Luxa Road, where we dismounted and continued on foot, the scene changed abruptly. The roads there were wider and far more crowded. Locals in colourful attire, tourists in more subdued tones, street pedlars, beggars, scooters, even a wandering cow or two, all negotiating the same cramped space. It was a considerable walk to the river, close to a kilometre, and the human traffic only grew thicker as we moved forward.
Then, just as suddenly, the lighting fell away as we neared the ghat. The final stretch was uneven and poorly lit. We had to pick our way gingerly over broken stones and irregular steps, sidestepping puddles and the occasional cow dung. I became acutely aware of where I placed my feet. Fortunately, I had the good sense to bring a torch from home. Its narrow beam proved invaluable. It is curious what one remembers of a sacred city: not only bells and flames, but the small practical business of not falling flat on one’s face.
Eventually we were led up to the top floor of a building overlooking the ghat. From there we had a clear view of the priests standing on raised platforms, swinging massive brass lamps in slow arcs. Flames circled against the dark sky. The chanting rolled across the river, amplified by loudspeakers. It was theatrical and ceremonial, but not hollow. The rhythm of it felt practised and old.
In the far distance, beyond the bright lights of Dashashwamedh, we could make out small, steadier fires. Those would have been Manikarnika Ghat, the cremation grounds. In Varanasi, life and death share the same riverbank without fuss. Funeral pyres are said to have burned there for centuries. We did not stay until the very end of the aarti; the crowds were swelling and we slipped away before the rush began.
Varanasi has a way of compressing time. Archaeological evidence suggests settlements there as early as the first millennium BC. By the sixth century BC it was already the capital of the Kingdom of Kashi. The Buddha walked nearby in Sarnath. Centuries later, invaders came and went. Temples were destroyed, rebuilt, replaced. Yet the city endured. Mark Twain once wrote that Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend. Standing on that balcony, watching fire offered to a river that has flowed through all of it, I began to see what he meant.
The next morning we were at the ghats again, from 6am for a one-and-a-half-hour river cruise from Rani Ghat. If the night before had been spectacle, the morning was unfiltered reality. The light was still soft, the air cool but slightly choking, the city only just stirring. Boats nudged against one another as pilgrims descended the stone steps to the Ganges.
The river had crept up during the night, leaving behind a thin film of mud and dampness. We found ourselves almost absurdly anxious about getting our sandals and shoes dirtied before the day had properly begun. Each step had to be judged lest we started the morning with wet, muddy feet. We moved carefully, trying to preserve both balance and footwear.
From the boat, the ghats revealed themselves one by one. There are said to be about 84 stretching along several kilometres of riverbank, forming a kind of stone amphitheatre rebuilt largely in the eighteenth century. Above them rose temples and old palaces, their facades weathered by sun and monsoon.
At some steps, men in loincloths soaped themselves briskly. Women in bright saris dipped into the water, emerging with wet hair plastered to their backs. Priests conducted small rituals for families seated cross-legged on the platforms. Further along, smoke drifted upwards from the cremation ghats. The remains of funeral pyres smouldered quietly. Wood was stacked high, weighed and sold. Death here was not hidden behind hospital curtains. It was part of the same river traffic as bathing, prayer and laundry.And the air was dirty. Not hazy, but simply dirty. A mix of smoke, exhaust fumes, damp river mud and perhaps something industrial that clung to the nostrils. Pollution. There is no other word for it. Whatever sanctity the Ganges carries in scripture, the lungs experience something far more earthly.
It is easy to call Varanasi chaotic. It is crowded, noisy and not particularly clean. Yet there is an order beneath the apparent disorder. Somewhere beyond the riverfront lies Banaras Hindu University, one of Asia’s largest residential universities. The city is famed for its silk weaving and for the Benares gharana of classical music. Sacredness and commerce, scholarship and smoke, all coexist without apology.
By 7.30am, our time at the Varanasi ghats was drawing to a close. We retreated to our hotel, visiting a silk merchant along the way. In the afternoon, we made our way to the railway station to catch the seven-hour Vande Bharat Express to Agra.
It is often described as the pride of Indian Railways, a modern semi high-speed electric train and among the fastest in regular service. Inside, the train was comfortable enough, clean and efficient. We were served some snacks and some time later, a full meal. Outside the window, we watched the plains rolled by in fading light.
Agra station, when we arrived, was unsurprisingly dark, grimy and smelt of burnt ash. Exiting, we picked our way carefully through the dirt on the ground towards the waiting coach. It was a different coach from the one that had carried us from Shravasti, though only a temporary arrangement. While we were on the train and later asleep at the hotel, our original coach was being driven from Varanasi with our bags. It would rejoin us the next morning in Agra.
Photobombed by the lady in the background
We could not help but worry about the resilience and stamina of the drivers. After covering such a long distance overnight, would they still be fresh enough to continue the journey for the remaining few days?
By the time we reached the Holiday Inn Agra, it was close to midnight. We had left the City of Light behind and were now heading towards another monument, raised by another empire in another age.
History, which once bored me in a classroom, had followed us all the way from Benares to Varanasi and now onwards to Agra. Only this time, the information did not slip quietly out of the other ear. It clung to the smell of pollution, to the mud on the steps of the Ganges and to the sound of bells ringing into the night.
Next:
Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur
The noisy half of the Chinese New Year celebrations is over. It ended with last night's worship of the Tnee Kong Seh, the Jade Emperor's birthday, by the Hokkien community in Malaysia, with the largest scale in Penang.
The moment the clock struck 11 o'clock at night, I could hear fireworks booming all around me and firecrackers erupting throughout the neighbourhood. Then they eased off, but did not stop, after about half an hour, only to go off again with greater intensity at midnight. It was only closer to two o'clock that the noise stopped completely around my house. Yup, this happens every year during Chinese New Year.
Two of my neighbours set up their traditional makeshift altars at the front of their houses and loaded them with all sorts of offerings. By comparison, mine was very modest, making use of only the available space to the small Jade Emperor's permanent altar that's fixed to the wall. There is a long story behind why my family celebrates on such a small scale. As I've written about it before, I won't elaborate again.
But lately, I've noticed that I have tried to pile more things onto the altar. Previously it was only a bunch of pisang raja. Last night the offerings were oranges, a dragon fruit and a pineapple, plus the traditional huat kueh and ang koo kueh. It made for a very congested altar.
The huat kueh, or prosperity cake, is easily recognised by its cracked top, usually split into two or three lobes. That crack is not a flaw. It is the whole point of the huat kueh. The cracks symbolise smiling or blooming, a sign of expanding fortune. When buying huat kueh, I would always search for one that has bloomed nicely with clear cracks on the surface. Last Chinese New Year eve, I actually rejected the huat kueh from one of the market stalls. Theirs hadn’t risen at all. In fact, they were sunken, with pockmarks on the surface instead of proper cracks. My grandmother would have said they must have violated some pantang rule, which was why their huat kueh sank instead of rose. How could the vendor put those out for sale, knowing nobody would touch them?
Anyway, the word huat itself is the Hokkien word for prosper, as in the familiar phrase “huat ah”. The cakes are usually pink, since that is the colour of happiness.
The ang koo kueh, literally red tortoise cake, is a small sticky rice cake filled with sweet mung bean or peanut paste and pressed into a mould with a tortoise shell pattern. The red colour represents prosperity and happiness. The tortoise symbolises longevity, strength and endurance. By offering this to the Jade Emperor, devotees pray for long life for their family and blessings for the year ahead.
We have also resorted to burning more paper offerings. I spent the last two days folding kim chuah into small paper gold ingots. I had also bought some ready-folded ones from vendors in the market. Once the worship was completed, these paper ingots were taken outside the house to be burnt. But not before my son and I let off two strings of firecrackers of our own to add to the community's noise level. All in good fun, once a year. And with good neighbourliness in mind, not wanting to contribute to ash pollution, I make sure that the burnt paper is swept away or washed off afterwards.
My final comment on the Tnee Kong Seh is this: the actual date for the Jade Emperor's birthday is the ninth day of Chinese New Year. From the way people worship, with all the fireworks and firecrackers, some think mistakenly that it falls on the eighth day, to be celebrated just before midnight. It does not. The worship starts from 11pm on the eighth day because according to the Chinese calendar, the ninth day begins at that hour.
I was a little late attending the Chinese New Year dinner and get-together at The Old Frees' Association last Saturday because of a huge traffic congestion in the heritage zone of George Town due to the annual miaohui celebrations.
By the time I arrived at the OFA, the fire crackers were over and all that remained was a carpet of red in the car park. But I wasn't late for the gathering or the prolonged lion dance performance.
I also got RM10 back in a red packet that every attending OFA member was given. So effectively, my dinner cost only RM10 net. For those who consumed the beer or stout, they had practically covered their cost back, and for those who did not drink, even the food itself was wide and varied enough to make it worth the while to attend.
But food was secondary. The main reason I signed up for this get-together was to meet up with old friends. Even though Sanan was the only old friend from my batch in school, it was good to catch up. Several of my chess friends were there too. Then of course, the other non-chess friends whoms I've known through the years. A great moment to catch up with all of them! I had to leave to eight o'clock and thus, missed out on the last item for the night which was the fireworks display.
I'm sure it was brilliant, but I had to leave for the heritage area to meet my daughter as we were going home together. While walking the streets, bumped into several friends as well. After all, the George Town core heritage zone is such a compact place....
Dateline: 1 December 2025. If Bodhgaya is where the Buddha attained enlightenment, Sarnath is where that enlightenment found its voice. A short drive from the Rivatas by Ideal, our hotel in Varanasi, brought us to this town, once known as the Deer Park. It was here that he sought out the five ascetics who had earlier abandoned him, and it was here that he delivered his first sermon.
But before we stepped out towards the Dhamek Stupa, we spent time in the Sarnath Museum of Buddhist art. It was, in many ways, the proper introduction. Although completed in 1910, the building was no ordinary colonial structure. The museum was built in the shape of a Sangharam, a traditional U-shaped Buddhist monastery. The building faces the rising sun. A veranda supported by heavy stone pillars runs along the front, and the sandstone exterior complemented the scattered ruins of Sarnath just a few hundred metres away.
Behind the statue once rose a massive stone umbrella, the symbol of sovereignty and spiritual authority. It is now displayed separately at a corner of the hall. One can imagine how it must have towered over pilgrims nearly 2,000 years ago in the Deer Park.
Inside, the central hall, known as the Tathagata Gallery, is spacious and lofty. Two wings extend from it, divided into smaller galleries with each devoted to a different period of Buddhist art.
In that main hall stands one of the most imposing figures in early Buddhist art: the colossal standing Bodhisattva, often referred to as the Bala Bodhisattva. An inscription recorded that it was installed by a monk named Bala during the reign of King Kanishka in the early second century. This figure is carved from spotted red sandstone from Mathura. Even in its damaged state, with the right arm missing, it radiates strength. Between its feet is a small lion of the Shakya clan, the “Lion of the Shakyas”.
Scholars have long debated the identity of this figure. Though labelled a Bodhisattva, many believe it represents Siddhartha Gautama before his enlightenment. In early Buddhist art there was reluctance to depict the fully enlightened Buddha in human form. By presenting him as a Bodhisattva, the sculptors could honour the Teacher-to-be while respecting that older sensibility. The style is of the Mathura school: thick limbs and heavy drapery. Later Gupta sculptures in the adjoining galleries appear more refined. This one is raw and direct.
In the same central hall stood an object even more consequential: the Lion Capital of Ashoka. If the Bodhisattva statue spoke of devotion, this one spoke of power: imperial, deliberate and meant to last.
The original pillar once stood more than 15 metres high in the Deer Park. Today, there is only its crowning capital, moved indoors in 1910 for protection when the museum was completed. Carved from a single block of sandstone, the surface still gleams with a smoothness that feels almost improbable for something over two millennia old.
Four Asiatic lions sat back to back, facing the four cardinal directions, proclaming the Dhamma to the four corners of the earth. Beneath them was a circular abacus carved with four animals - elephant, bull, horse and lion - separated by wheels. The Dharmachakra appeared again and again, reinforcing the idea of motion, of teaching set into motion. Supporting all of this was an inverted lotus.
Originally, there was a large stone wheel crowning the lions. That Mahadharmachakra shattered when the pillar fell centuries ago, and its fragments now rested in a nearby display case. So it is now left to the imagination to picture a wheel above the lions, above the lotus, above the earth.
Today, this sculpture is the National Emblem of India. The lions appear on every Indian rupee note, passport and government seal. The wheel on the Indian flag traces its lineage to the chakras carved on this very abacus. What began as an imperial monument commissioned by Ashoka in the third century BC has become the visual shorthand of a modern republic.
Only after absorbing all this did we proceed to the Dhamek Stupa. The structure rose more than 40 metres, a huge cylindrical mass of brick and stone. Walking around its base, we saw intricate carvings of floral patterns and geometric motifs. Tradition holds that this stupa marks the very spot where the Buddha delivered his first sermon called the Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta or the Turning of the Wheel of Dhamma.
In that sermon he articulated the Four Noble Truths, outlined the Eightfold Path and spoke of the Middle Way he had discovered after abandoning indulgence and self-mortification. What had been a silent contemplation beneath the Bodhi tree in Bodhgaya became here a teaching shared with others. The wheel began to turn.
Sarnath felt different from Bodhgaya. There is less intensity, less constant movement. Open lawns stretched between the ruins of monasteries that once housed thousands of monks. There is space here to breathe and so we sat down on the grass beneath the shadow of the stupa for a 30-minute chanting and meditation session, a gentle breeze moving gently through our group.
If Bodh Gaya is the heart of Buddhism, Sarnath is its voice. The insight gained in solitude was first spoken here, a few hundred metres from where that red sandstone Bodhisattva now stands in the museum hall. From this quiet park near Varanasi, the teaching began its long journey across centuries and continents. And with that, our four essential stops on this pilgrimage tour were complete.
News reached me this week that Jan Timman had passed away on Wednesday at the age of 74 after a period of serious illness. For many, he was “The Best of the West”, the strongest non-Soviet player in an era dominated by Moscow. For me, he will always be the Dutch grandmaster who once sat across me at the dinner table in a hotel suite in Kuala Lumpur.
It was a pretty exciting time in 1990 when Malaysians learnt that the Candidates Final between Anatoly Karpov and Timman would be played in Kuala Lumpur. The Malaysian Chess Federation, then led by Sabbaruddin Chik, had won the bid to host the match. For local chess enthusiasts, this was nothing short of historic. A world class chess match was coming to our doorstep.
The venue was the Dewan Bandaraya auditorium, a vast hall with rows of seats descending towards the stage. At the centre stood a single table with a chess board, flanked by two rather luxurious chairs reserved for the players. At one end sat the arbiters, watchful and impassive. At the other, a large two-dimensional demonstration board displayed the moves for the audience.
From where we sat in the darkness, the players looked almost minute. Two figures bent over 64 squares under the stage lights. Our eyes moved constantly between the stage and the demo board as a tournament assistant carefully duplicated each move. The soft click of pieces being set down did not reach us, yet we felt every tension in the position.
We sat quietly in the dim hall, trying to second-guess the moves before they were played. Occasionally a suppressed murmur would ripple through our section when our calculations proved wrong, which was more often than we cared to admit. There was no live streaming, no chess engines on mobile phones, no instant commentary from across the world. The Internet had not yet entered our lives in any commercial sense.
Now, when I think of Jan Timman and realise that he is no longer with us, that hall returns to me with unexpected clarity. The positions have long since been analysed and archived, the match result preserved in tournament records, yet what lingers is the memory of those quiet hours in Kuala Lumpur, and of a time when chess felt at once distant from us on the stage and yet intensely personal in the darkened auditorium.
By then Timman was already a towering figure in world chess. Born in 1951, he had risen rapidly through the ranks. He became a grandmaster in 1974, only the third in Dutch history after Max Euwe and Jan Hein Donner. Through the late 70s and 80s he amassed tournament victories at Wijk aan Zee, Linares and Amsterdam. In 1982 he was ranked second in the world, behind only Karpov. His style was fearless and combative, willing to enter complications even when a quieter path was available. That courage won him brilliant victories and painful defeats in equal measure.
The 1990 Candidates Final was a stern test. Timman had fought his way through the cycle, defeating formidable opponents to earn the right to challenge Karpov. Yet in Kuala Lumpur he was outplayed. Karpov’s precision and experience proved decisive. Timman was eliminated, his dream of challenging for the world title postponed once again. He would later face Karpov again for the FIDE World Championship in 1993, and lose that match as well.
During the course of the Kuala Lumpur match, I had the rare privilege of attending a private dinner with Timman. It was hosted by Tan Chin Nam at his Micasa Hotel suite. Away from the board and the bright lights of the auditorium, he was reflective and unassuming. We spoke of chess, but also of travel and books. He was one of the chief editors of New In Chess magazine, a publication that serious players around the world read with respect, He was also a prolific author and his The Art of Chess Analysis remains a modern classic. In later years he would write Timman’s Titans and several other thoughtful works on the history of the game.
After his defeat, he took some consolation in a holiday at Pangkor Laut. I remember thinking how different that tranquil island must have felt compared to the tense atmosphere of the match hall. Perhaps the sea breeze offered some healing after weeks of mental combat.Timman represented the Netherlands in 13 Chess Olympiads, often on the top board, and won the Dutch Championship nine times. He challenged opponents in their areas of strength, a fighter in the mould of Emanuel Lasker, as Raymond Keene once observed. That fighting spirit defined his career.
His passing marks the end of an era. For those of us who witnessed that 1990 match in Kuala Lumpur, his memory is woven into our own chess history. The moves played on that stage have long since been analysed and archived, but the image of him leaning over the board remains vivid.
In remembering Jan Timman, I am reminded that chess careers, like life itself, are measured not only by titles won but by battles fought with courage. On that count, he stood among the very best.
Since last Friday I’ve been waking at 5.30am to go marketing for Chinese New Year. It’s something I’ve done for years; it's become a ritual, almost a discipline. I thought I was being particularly kiasu this time, but when I reached the Kampong Baru market at 6.30am, the place was already in full swing. Clearly I wasn't the only one who believed that the early bird would get the freshest ikan and kay.
The vegetable section is always the most frenetic. Shoppers hover, point, select, reject. Poultry and seafood are not far behind, with fish still glistening on crushed ice and chickens being weighed and chopped with alarming efficiency. The fruit stalls do brisk business too, oranges and pomelos stacked in careful pyramids. Even the dried goods section is packed. Mushrooms, scallops, lily bulbs, waxed sausages, all essential for the festive kitchen.It is chaotic in a way that only wet markets can be. Shoulders brush. Plastic bags swing. Everyone stretches forward to have their purchases totalled. The vendors perform mental arithmetic at astonishing speed. A few notes exchanged, sometimes an e-wallet beep, and the transaction is done. By 8am, the serious marketing is over until the next morning when we all return to repeat the exercise. From there it is a short cross to the adjacent food court for a quick, warm breakfast before driving home. This Chinese New Year marketing routine is tiring, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Back home, spring-cleaning has taken up the better part of the past few weeks. We tackled the house bit by bit, day by day. I would say we are 99 percent done, though there is always that mysterious remaining one percent that reveals itself at the last minute. Every room has been attended to. Walls wiped, ceiling and wall fans cleaned, cupboards emptied, tables and chairs dusted. Pots, pans and plates removed, washed, dried and returned orderly to their shelves. Curtains and sofa covers changed. Even the car porch has been cleared of fallen leaves and broken twigs, the floor scrubbed hard to rid it of moss and grime. The whole works.
Yesterday was set aside for the ancestral prayers. The evening before, I laid out the table. Yesterday morning came the formal invitation to my departed grandparents, my parents and my aunt to partake of the offerings of fruits, mee koo, huat kueh and assorted Chinese New Year cookies. One must not forget the unseen pair of door guardians; they too have to be informed to let the spirits into the house, otherwise the divination coins can be stubborn. Thankfully, there was no difficulty this year. I tossed the two coins and they landed one head and one tail at the first attempt, a clear sign that the invitation had been accepted.
After that came the other duties: putting up the New Year door sashes, wiping down the altar, tidying the joss urns. And then my own small ritual of bathing the image of Kuan Imm with perfumed water, done slowly and with some care.
Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. There will still be last-minute chores like washing the cars, mopping the floors, resetting the timer switches, checking that everything is in order. Such work is never truly finished. The kitchen will be busy with preparations for the reunion dinner, the Ooi Lor. My daughter is already home from Kuala Lumpur, and my son will return tomorrow. We plan to eat at about 7pm, unhurried.
After dinner, there will be the decorating of fruits with red paper strips, the folding of auspicious paper offerings to be burned at midnight. All must be completed by about 11.30pm. If my son has managed to secure a string of firecrackers, we might light them too. By the time the Year of the Horse is ushered in and the last embers fade, it will probably be close to 2am before we finally turn in.
It was magnificent. That word is often overused, but here it feels earned. If any monument deserves a place on one’s bucket list, this would be it. 
