The Borobudur story

Before I move on, perhaps I should say something more about Borobudur. I happened to pick up a brochure at the entrance into the archaeological park and I must say that it turned out quite informative. I thought of reproducing it verbatim here but the language was rather stilted and, at times, simply wrong. So the next best solution was to have a go at rewriting it myself. It proved to be a surprisingly refreshing exercise and I learnt quite a few new things along the way. 

Most visitors arrive at Borobudur expecting to see a grand ancient monument. I certainly did. Yet the more I read about it, the more I realised that Borobudur is not merely a temple in the conventional sense. It is, in fact, a vast three-dimensional representation of Buddhist thought carved in stone.  

Seen from ground level, Borobudur appears as a massive stepped pyramid crowned by stupas. Viewed from above, however, its true design becomes apparent. The entire monument is laid out in the form of a giant mandala, a sacred diagram found in both Buddhist and Hindu traditions. At its simplest, a mandala consists of a square with four gateways surrounding a circular centre. It is meant to represent the universe and the spiritual journey from the outer world towards inner awakening.  

Borobudur expresses this journey through three ascending realms of Buddhist cosmology: Kamadhatu, Rupadhatu and Arupadhatu.

The lowest level, known as Kamadhatu, represents the world of desire. It symbolises the realm in which human beings remain bound by attachment, craving and worldly concerns. Much of this section lies hidden beneath an encasing base added during the temple's construction, although some of the concealed relief panels have since been uncovered and documented.  

Above this lies Rupadhatu, the world of form. Here, desire has been overcome, but attachment to the physical world remains. It is within these galleries that visitors encounter the remarkable narrative reliefs for which Borobudur is so famous.

At the summit is Arupadhatu, the formless realm associated with enlightenment and ultimate liberation. The square terraces below give way to three circular terraces lined with perforated stupas, creating a striking sense of openness and simplicity. The symbolism is clear enough even for a casual visitor: as one ascends, distractions fall away. 

The reliefs of Borobudur deserve special mention. Among the most important is the Lalitavistara, a series of carved panels recounting the life of the historical Buddha.

The story begins with the birth of Prince Siddhartha in Lumbini, in present-day Nepal. It follows his privileged upbringing, his marriage to Princess Gopā, better known in the Theravāda tradition as Yasodharā. and the profound encounters that changed the course of his life: old age, sickness, death and the sight of a wandering ascetic. These experiences prompted him to leave the palace in search of a deeper understanding of human suffering. 

The panels continue through his years of study and ascetic practice, culminating in his enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya and his transformation into Gautama Buddha.

As I walked through the galleries, I found myself wondering how pilgrims more than a thousand years ago would have experienced these stories. For many of them, these carvings were not simply decorative art. They were sacred teachings in stone. 

The Buddha statues themselves carry layers of meaning. There are 504 Buddha statues throughout the monument, with 432 of them placed in niches along the Rupadhatu galleries. Each displays a particular hand gesture, or mudra, symbolising different aspects of Buddhist teaching.

I confess that, at the time, I admired the statues more for their serenity than their symbolism. Only later did I learn that the mudras vary according to their position on the monument, corresponding to different Dhyani Buddhas and cardinal directions. 

Borobudur's story did not end with the decline of the Sailendra dynasty. Between the 12th and 14th centuries, the monument was gradually abandoned as political power shifted across Java. Why this happened remains uncertain, although volcanic activity may have played a part.

For centuries, Borobudur lay hidden beneath layers of volcanic ash, vegetation and jungle growth. Although local communities never entirely forgot its existence, it was Sir Stamford Raffles, then British Lieutenant-Governor of Java, who brought the site to wider attention in 1814. 

The first efforts to clear the monument began soon afterwards. Over the following decades, scholars documented its reliefs and attempted to understand its history.

One significant discovery came in 1885 when hidden reliefs at the base of the temple were uncovered. Some of these carvings contained instructions for the stone carvers in Sanskrit. The distinctive style of the script helped scholars date Borobudur to the middle of the ninth century, during the reign of the Sailendra dynasty. 

Large-scale restoration work followed in the early 20th century under the Dutch engineer, Theodor van Erp. Yet it soon became apparent that deeper structural problems remained. Water infiltration and erosion continued to threaten the monument.

The most ambitious restoration project began in 1968 under UNESCO's guidance. Over the next 15 years, specialists from around the world dismantled and rebuilt large sections of the temple, installing modern drainage systems and developing methods to protect the stone from biological decay. 

Their efforts ensured that Borobudur would survive for future generations and, in 1991, the monument was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

One final detail from the brochure caught my attention. Among Borobudur's relief panels are ten depictions of ancient seafaring vessels. In 1982, an English researcher named Philip Beale studied these carvings and became convinced that they represented ships used along the ancient maritime trade routes linking Indonesia with Africa.

His fascination eventually led to the construction of a replica vessel based on the reliefs. The reconstructed ship later sailed across the Indian Ocean, retracing what is now known as the Cinnamon Route. Quite remarkable that a monument so often associated with stillness and meditation also preserves evidence of long-distance trade, exploration and cultural exchange.

Perhaps that is one of Borobudur's enduring appeal. Information is revealed layer by layer. At first glance, it is a magnificent monument. Spend a little more time with it and it becomes a book of stone, a map of the Buddhist cosmos, a record of ancient maritime connections and a testament to humanity's determination to preserve its heritage. No wonder people keep returning to it, not just to admire its beauty but to discover something new each time.

Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur

After our four days in Jakarta, our group from Nandaka Vihara flew to Jogjakarta for the next leg of our journey. Travel day aside, we had two full days to explore this historic city in Central Java and for all of us, there was little doubt about our first priority. We had come to visit the great Buddhist monuments of the region.

Our itinerary for the first full day followed a sequence that pilgrims have observed for centuries. Early in the morning, we made our way to the monastery at Mendut Temple. After lunch, we stopped at the smaller Pawon Temple before ending the afternoon at the magnificent Borobudur. 

At the time, I thought of them simply as three separate places of interest located within convenient driving distance of one another. Only later did I realise that they were never meant to be experienced in isolation.

Although commonly associated with Jogjakarta, all three monuments are actually located in neighbouring Magelang Regency. Built during the eighth and ninth centuries under th
e Sailendra dynasty, they form a single sacred complex aligned along an almost perfectly straight east-west axis.

Mendut stands at the eastern end, Pawon in the middle and Borobudur at the western end. Archaeologists believe that the temples were once linked by a ceremonial avenue, suggesting that pilgrims in ancient times would have walked the entire route as one continuous spiritual journey rather than visiting each site separately.

In fact, this remains very much a living tradition today. Every year during Waisak, thousands of monks and devotees gather at Mendut before proceeding on foot through Pawon and finally arriving at Borobudur. A solemn procession that preserves a ritual pathway that has endured for well over a thousand years.

Our first stop that morning was the quiet Buddhist monastery beside Mendut Temple. Shaded by mature trees and set back from the main road, the monastery grounds had a peaceful, unhurried atmosphere. Prayer halls, monks' quarters and landscaped gardens were spread across the compound.

One feature that caught my attention was a gilded ceremonial chariot. From what I gathered, it is associated with the annual Waisak celebrations, when sacred objects including the blessed water and Dharma flame are carried in procession from Mendut to Borobudur. Standing there and appreciating the chariot from all angles, I imagined the thousands of monks and devotees who make that solemn four-kilometre pilgrimage each year.

Compared with Borobudur, Mendut Temple itself is modest in size, but stepping inside its dim interior was a surprisingly moving experience. There, seated within the sanctuary, are three magnificent stone figures: the Buddha Vairocana in the centre, flanked by the bodhisattvas Avalokiteshvara on the left and Vajrapani on the right. Unlike the stupas of Borobudur, these statues remain intact and protected behind wooden hoardings. One could easily imagine ancient pilgrims beginning their spiritual journey here, setting aside worldly concerns before moving onwards.

After lunch, we continued to Pawon Temple. Personally, I found Pawon the least interesting of the three sites. That is perhaps inevitable when it is sandwiched between Mendut's serene interior and the overwhelming grandeur of Borobudur. Pawon is small and compact, and our visit there was brief.

Yet its modest scale belies its importance. Pawon was the midpoint of the sacred journey. It was a place of transition and purification before pilgrims approached Borobudur. The temple's relief carvings include the Kalpataru, the mythical Tree of Life, on three sides of the temple. 

After a brief stop for luwak coffee at a nearby shop, mainly to escape the midday sun, we proceeded to Borobudur. No amount of photographs or videos can quite prepare one for the experience of seeing it in person for the first time. Rising far in the distance with trees lining both sides of the wide boulevard, Borobudur possesses a majesty that is difficult to describe.

It is often called a temple, but it is really something much more ambitious: a three-dimensional mandala in stone. Pilgrims traditionally ascend it in a clockwise direction, moving through successive levels that symbolise the journey from the world of desire to the realm of enlightenment. 

Yet Borobudur is not only a monument of stone and history. Local villagers still speak of Gunadharma, the legendary sage said to have designed the monument, whose reclining form is believed to be etched into the contours of the nearby Menoreh Hills. Others say Borobudur was built to balance the volatile spirit of Mount Merapi. These stories tell of Borobudur's place in archaeology textbooks and UNESCO descriptions, and also in the imagination where myth and devotion overlap.

Constructed during the eighth and ninth centuries by the Sailendra dynasty, Borobudur remains the world's largest Buddhist monument. Spread across six square terraces and three circular platforms are 2,672 relief panels, 72 perforated stupas and a total of 504 Buddha statues. Of these, 432 are placed in niches along the square terraces while another 72 sit within the bell-shaped stupas of the upper levels.

At the summit stands the great central stupa. Unlike the smaller perforated stupas, this largest stupa is empty. For many scholars, that emptiness is entirely deliberate, symbolising śūnyatā, the Buddhist concept of ultimate emptiness or the formless nature of enlightenment itself.

Yet there is a mystery associated with this central stupa. During restoration work in the early 20th century, archaeologists discovered a seated Buddha statue buried nearby. Today known as the "Unfinished Buddha", it is now displayed nearby within the Borobudur grounds.

The statue earned its name because parts of it appear incomplete. Sections of the head, hands and robes were left only partially carved. Some researchers suggested that it was rejected because of imperfections in the workmanship. Rather than destroy a flawed image, the builders may simply have concealed it within the central stupa. Others believe the incompleteness was intentional and carried symbolic meaning, while some scholars question whether the statue ever belonged inside the stupa at all. To this day, no one knows for certain.

While descending from the terraces, my mind went back to the smaller temples we had visited earlier in the day. Suddenly, the sequence made sense. Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur are not three separate destinations competing for attention. They are three chapters of the same story. Mendut represents preparation. Pawon symbolises purification. Borobudur marks the culmination of the journey towards awakening. Perhaps that is why the ancient builders placed them along a single line. The physical journey mirrors an inner one.

Whether one walks the path as a pilgrim, a student of history or simply a curious traveller, I felt impressed by the vision of the Sailendra rulers who created this landscape so long ago. Maybe that's the real wonder of the Borobudur trail. Not that these temples have survived the centuries, but that they still invite us to reflect on ourselves.

A Jakarta experience

For four days in Jakarta, our little group from the Nandaka Vihara Meditation Society found ourselves spending much of our time at Gedung BWE in the Mozia precinct of BSD City, a planned township in Tangerang within the wider Greater Jakarta region.

BSD City is one of those modern satellite townships that seem to stretch endlessly into the horizon, with neatly laid-out roads, residential clusters, shopping centres and office buildings. Gedung BWE itself is a multipurpose venue that has become an important gathering place for Buddhist activities in the Jakarta area. The initials BWE stand for Bodhicitta Wahana Edukasi, an organisation involved in Buddhist education and community work.

Over the years, the venue has hosted meditation retreats, Dhamma talks, relic veneration ceremonies and large-scale Waisak celebrations. Its spacious hall is well suited for bringing together monks, lay devotees and volunteers from different traditions and organisatio
ns. This year's four-day Waisak celebration from 29th May to 01 June was jointly organised by Yayasan Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi.

Although the district surrounding the Gedung BWE offered no shortage of cafés, shopping centres and other modern conveniences, we never really had the opportunity to venture there during our stay. Our time revolved almost entirely around the programme itself. shuttling from our hotel in North Jakarta to the Gedung BWE, and subsequently returning at the end of each day's programme. Still, we did get to see a little of Jakarta when we were not required at the venue, thanks to Epi, our volunteer guide.

At some point, I surrendered myself entirely to the ladies in our group who wanted to go shopping. So we found ourselves stopping at several neighbourhood markets to pick up things like packed groundnuts and buah emping, which we Penangites would recognise as buah binjai. My wife and I had arrived with two half-empty suitcases. By the time we left Jakarta, both were filled to the brim. Fortunately, everything was bulky rather than heavy, and we managed to stay within the airline's weight limits. 

Our journeys took us through various parts of North and West Jakarta, offering fleeting glimpses of everyday life in this vast metropolis. One evening, we were taken to the Chandra building for dinner. The place was buzzing with activity. Finding seats was an adventure and we ended up sharing tables with complete strangers. We wandered off to order different dishes before returning with their selections to be shared among the group, all while a karaoke competition unfolded on the stage nearby. It was lively, informal and wonderfully communal, the sort of atmosphere that seems to bring people together with little fuss.

On another occasion, as we drove through the city, our vehicle passed a roundabout adorned with temporary Waisak decorations. There stood two large Buddha statues alongside an Aśoka pillar. It was a striking sight, and I could not help thinking that such a public display would be almost impossible to imagine back home in Malaysia. For a brief moment, amid the traffic and bustle of Jakarta, the city seemed to pause and acknowledge the significance of the occasion. 

We also drove through Jakarta's historic district, the Kota Tua Jakarta, the old colonial quarter once known as Batavia. Compared with Jakarta's gleaming shopping malls, Kota Tua feels basic, slower, grittier and more textured. The malls represent modern Jakarta: air-conditioned, polished and driven by consumption. Kota Tua, by contrast, preserves traces of the city's past, with its Dutch-era buildings, museums and cafés. It may not possess the commercial energy of Jakarta's mega malls, but it offers something increasingly rare in large cities, which is a sense of place and historical continuity.

Food, naturally, was another highlight. One memorable meal was at Pagi Sore, where we enjoyed a delicious spread of Indonesian dishes. Quite unexpectedly, I spotted an Old Free friend seated at another table. He looked familiar, though I was not entirely certain it was him. Rather than interrupt his meal, I discreetly took a photograph and sent it to him. A short while later, we were catching up in the restaurant.

Another memorable occasion was a farewell lunch hosted by our Indonesian Buddhist friends at the Angke Heritage Restaurant before we left for Jogjakarta. Angke is well known for its Hakka cuisine, but what impressed us immediately was the setting. We had arrived early and, for a while, had the whole place to ourselves.

The restaurant exuded a wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. Traditional Chinese architectural elements were woven throughout the grounds with moon gates, courtyards, pavilions set over water and landscaped gardens. It was a delight for photographers and diners alike.

Two nights earlier, we had been treated to dinner at Da Fa Chinese Seafood Restaurant. The dishes were not all that different from any Chinese seafood meals we enjoy in Penang, which perhaps explains why we tucked into them with such enthusiasm.

There was also a lunch dāna during the Waisak programme itself at a restaurant known as Lembur Kuring, where we sampled Sundanese and Javanese dishes with their distinctive inland flavours.

We visited Aloha Pasir Putih PIK 2, a modern waterfront lifestyle destination designed around a tropical beach theme. The place is often described as "the Hawaii of Jakarta", complete with palm trees, surfboard displays and large Polynesian-inspired statues. Its centrepiece is an artificial white-sand beach overlooking the coast.

The concept is clearly aimed at city dwellers looking for a short escape from Jakarta's relentless pace. Families strolled along the promenade, children played in the sand and groups of friends gathered at the many cafés and restaurants lining the waterfront. It was all very photogenic and unapologetically designed for the social media age.

The day before we departed for Jogjakarta, Bhante Dhammasubho joined us on a sightseeing tour that included a stop at Jakarta Cathedral. Officially known as the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, it is one of Indonesia's most important Catholic churches. Completed in 1901 in a neo-Gothic style, the cathedral stands directly opposite the Istiqlal Mosque, Southeast Asia's largest mosque. The juxtaposition of these two great houses of worship has become a symbol of Indonesia's commitment to religious harmony. In recent years, the two sites have even been physically linked by a pedestrian tunnel known as the "Tunnel of Friendship".

What struck me about those few days in Jakarta was the contrast between the modern city and the spiritual gathering we had come to attend. We spent time within the peaceful confines of Gedung BWE, surrounded by chanting, meditation and Dhamma talks. Yet just beyond its walls stretched one of the world's largest urban regions, with its endless roads, shopping centres and constant movement. Perhaps that was what made the experience so interesting. Amidst the speed and scale of Greater Jakarta, thousands of people had gathered quietly and purposefully to celebrate the Buddha's teachings. And for four days, we were fortunate enough to be part of it.

The original Chipmunk music

I must have been seven, eight or perhaps nine years old when my father brought home these two Chipmunks records from Wing Hing Records, his friend's shop along Campbell Street. At that age, few things gave me more happiness than listening to David Seville and the Chipmunks. I played those LPs over and over again until I practically knew every song by heart.

For a few years, they were constant companions. Then I grew older and gradually moved on to other kinds of music. The records went back into their sleeves, placed in a cupboard and left untouched for decades. Until recently.

Something stirred in me and I went looking for them again. When I finally played them again and heard those familiar high-pitched voices, I felt an unexpected lump in my throat. In an instant, I was transported back to a time when I had not even yet reached the age of ten. Wonderful how music can do that. A song lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow it can unlock entire rooms of memory that have remained closed for half a century. What more a whole hour's worth from Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks and Sing Again with the Chipmunks.

As a child, I never questioned who the Chipmunks were. They simply existed. After all, children do not worry about such details. Alvin, Simon and Theodore were mischievous little creatures who sang funny songs, while the long-suffering David Seville tried to keep them in line. Only much later did I learn that neither the Chipmunks nor David Seville actually existed. The entire concept was the creation of one remarkably inventive man: Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

Bagdasarian was a first-generation Armenian-American from California. Early in his career, record executives felt that his surname was too long and too ethnic for show business. During the Second World War, he served as a control tower operator with the US Army Air Forces and spent some time stationed in Seville, Spain. The city made such an impression on him that he adopted "David Seville" as his stage name.

Before the Chipmunks came along, he had already established himself as a songwriter. In 1951, he had collaborated to write the quirky song Come On-a My House. After spending months trying to persuade someone to record it, he finally found success when Rosemary Clooney turned it into a number one hit.

Yet success in the music business can be fleeting. By late 1957, despite his earlier triumph, Bagdasarian was facing financial difficulties. Supporting a wife and three young children, he reportedly had only about US$200 left. Instead of spending the money on household expenses, he took a gamble. He bought a dual-speed tape recorder and began experimenting with tape speeds at home. He discovered that by recording his voice slowly at a lower pitch and then playing it back at normal speed, he could create an entirely new sound: bright, squeaky and unlike anything listeners had heard before.

His first experiment was Witch Doctor, released in early 1958. The famous refrain, Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla, bing-bang, became an instant sensation, selling more than a million copies and helping to rescue Liberty Records from financial trouble. Asked to come up with a follow-up, Bagdasarian expanded the idea into three animated chipmunks. Their names were playful nods to the executives at Liberty Records: Alvin after company president Al Bennett, Simon after co-founder Simon Waronker and Theodore after recording engineer Ted Keep.

Creating their voices was a feat in the days before digital technology. Bagdasarian recorded every character himself; four separate vocal tracks for Alvin, Simon, Theodore and Dave Seville while matching the timing manually with extraordinary precision. The result was The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late), released in late 1958. It became a runaway success and won three awards including Best Engineered Record (Non-Classical) at the inaugural Grammy Awards in 1959.

A string of hit records followed, including Alvin's Harmonica and Ragtime Cowboy Joe. Soon came the first full-length albums: Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks pressed on red vinyl in 1959 and Sing Again with the Chipmunks the following year. Those were the very records, with their 24 songs, that eventually found their way into my childhood home in Penang.

But of course, the songs were only part of the story. Beneath the squeaky voices was something far more personal: my father's love of his child in bringing those records home, the excitement of discovering new music as a child and the simple happiness of sitting beside the gramophone with nothing else demanding my attention. The Chipmunks may have been fictional, but the memories they created were very real. And after all these years, they still have the power to make me smile.

Staircase danger

A recent unfortunate incident brought back a memory that I had not thought about for quite some time. Four years ago, I had a close call falling down. I was standing on a collapsible ladder, only on the first step, when the whole thing suddenly slid backwards. It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. Fortunately, as the steps shot away beneath me, I fell sideways onto my right rather than backwards. The only injury was a bruise on my thigh. Over the next few days it grew impressively black and blue, spreading much further than I would have imagined, before gradually fading away and healing completely. At the time, I regarded it as an unpleasant but ultimately minor incident. After all, nothing was broken and life went on as normal.

Recently, however, I learnt of a far more tragic accident involving someone I was acquainted with. He fell down the staircase at his home and never recovered from the injuries. The news affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it was because the circumstances sounded so ordinary. Stairs are among the most familiar features of any house. We climb them and descend them every day without giving them a second thought. Yet a staircase can become dangerous when something goes wrong.

As we grow older, we become more vulnerable. When we are young, a fall often results in embarrassment, a few bruises and perhaps a story to tell later. Age changes everything. Bones become more fragile. Reflexes slow down. Balance is no longer quite what it once was. A fall that a younger person might shrug off can become a life-changing event for an older adult.

Medical studies have shown that the direction of a fall can make a tremendous difference. Falling backwards is often especially dangerous because there is little opportunity to protect oneself. A person may strike the back of the head, neck or spine with considerable force. Falling forwards is not necessarily safer. The instinctive attempt to break the fall can result in fractured wrists, broken shoulders or facial injuries.

Then there is the question of height. One might assume that only a tumble from the top of a staircase is dangerous, but even a fall from the bottom few steps can have devastating consequences. A sideways landing can fracture a hip. For many elderly people, a broken hip becomes the beginning of a long and difficult decline involving surgery, rehabilitation and a loss of mobility.

What is particularly sobering is that the danger does not end with the initial injury. A serious fall can trigger a chain of consequences. Reduced mobility leads to muscle loss. Confidence disappears. Some people become fearful of moving about independently lest they fall again. Ironically, that reduced activity can weaken the body further and increase the likelihood of another fall.

As I thought about my acquaintance's passing, I found myself thinking not only about the fragility of the human body but also about how Buddhism approaches impermanence. We often associate impermanence with grand events: aging, illness and death. Yet there's also impermanence in the smallest moments. A misplaced step. A stumble from uneven floors of even one millimetre apart. A momentary loss of balance. An ordinary staircase climbed a thousand times before without incident.

We tend to imagine that major changes in life arrive with warning signs and dramatic announcements. More often, they arrive unexpectedly. One moment everything is normal. The next, circumstances have changed completely.

When I look back on my own accident, I realise how fortunate I was. Had I fallen differently, the outcome might have been very different. It was a reminder, one that I perhaps did not fully appreciate at the time, that we should never take safety for granted. These days when I climb a staircase, I find myself paying more attention. When I step onto a ladder, I ask someone to hold it. Not out of fear, but out of respect for the simple fact that our bodies are not indestructible. The older we become, the more we learn that life often hangs on small things: a secure handrail, a dry floor, a firm footing and perhaps a little good fortune. The loss of my acquaintance is a sad reminder of that truth. May he rest in peace.

Chan Ah Seng

One of life's sobering moments comes when one attends the wake of someone one has known, however intermittently, over the years. Yesterday evening, I attended the wake of Dr Chan Ah Seng, a highly respected Obstetrician and Gynaecologist from Bagan Specialist Centre. Last Tuesday, he suffered a tragic accident at home and was rushed to the very hospital where he had spent much of his professional life caring for others. Sadly, the injuries proved too severe and he passed away on Saturday without regaining consciousness.

My wife and I first got to know him in 1990 when Saw See was expecting our son. Throughout the pregnancy, we consulted him regularly and in May 1991 he safely delivered a healthy baby boy into our lives. After that, as often happens, we lost touch. More than three decades passed before we met him again in March last year.

The years had changed all of us, of course, but he was instantly recognisable. By then he had become a volunteer at Nandaka Vihara Meditation Centre, offering free medical consultations once a month. It seemed entirely in character for a man who had spent his career helping people.

Last night's wake was attended by many from the medical fraternity as well as his former schoolmates from Sultan Abdul Hamid College. Listening to the conversations and seeing the steady stream of visitors, one could sense the regard in which he was held.

It was also there that I learnt something I had never known before. Dr Chan was the same age as me, though a few months older. Somehow that made his passing feel even more poignant. When someone of one's own generation departs so suddenly, it serves as a reminder of the Buddhist teaching that all conditioned things are impermanent. We may understand the principle well enough, but occasions like this bring it home in a very personal way. As life unfolds, all we can do is cherish the moment and the people we meet along the way.

Buah salak

One of the unexpected pleasures of my recent trip to Jakarta and Jogjakarta was renewing my acquaintance with the salak fruit, better known to many as snake fruit because of its distinctive scaly skin.

Every morning at the hotel breakfast table, there would be a small tray of salak placed among the other fruits. There were usually only five or six fruits at a time and they tended to disappear almost as soon as the hotel staff brought them out. Before long, the group from Nandaka Vihara had developed quite an appetite for them. A few of our friends had never seen the fruit before and approached it with some caution at first. The skin looked unusual, almost reptilian, and certainly not like anything one would normally associate with a sweet fruit. But once they learnt how to peel it, many quickly became converts.

In fact, salak became so popular among our group that whenever the tray was emptied, all we had to do was ask. The hotel staff would smile and bring out another batch specially for us. By the end of the trip, some of our first-time salak eaters had become quite addicted to the fruit and looked forward to seeing it each morning.

We generally encountered two varieties. One had a dark mahogany maroon skin while the other was a lighter coppery brown. Both shared the same characteristic scales that give the fruit its snake-like appearance. Freshly harvested salak can also be surprisingly prickly. The skin is covered with tiny hard projections that can give an unsuspecting finger a little jab. Nothing serious, but enough to remind you to handle the fruit with some respect.

Inside, however, lies the reward. The cream-coloured flesh comes in segments rather like large garlic cloves. The texture is quite unlike most tropical fruits. It is not juicy like a rambutan or mangosteen. Instead, it is firm and crisp, almost like biting into a very dense apple or pear. The ones we encountered were consistently sweet and pleasant to eat, which perhaps explains why several members of our group became rather fond of them.

Salak is native to Indonesia but also grown in Malaysia. It is a thorny palm and the fruit grows in clusters at the base of the plant, surrounded by its natural prickly armour, and making harvesting a somewhat careful exercise. Indonesia produces many varieties, among them the Salak Pondoh from the Jogjakarta region, which is a variety prized for its sweetness even before it is fully ripe.

The more I ate it, the more I wondered why salak never became as internationally famous as durian, rambutan or mangosteen. Perhaps its appearance works against it. The rough scaly skin is hardly inviting at first glance. Yet those willing to look beyond the exterior discover a fruit that is both distinctive and enjoyable.

I also learnt that the fruit continues to attract scientific interest. Researchers have studied the seeds for various useful compounds, including oils and antioxidants. In parts of Indonesia, the seeds have even been roasted and ground to produce a coffee substitute. It seems that almost every part of the fruit has found a use somewhere.

For me, though, the strongest memory remains those breakfasts in Indonesia. A plate of salak sitting quietly among the other fruits. Friends reaching for one, then another. Curious first-timers becoming enthusiastic converts. Travel is often remembered through such simple experiences and for our Nandaka Vihara group, salak turned out to be one of the pleasant discoveries of the journey.

Maxwell Road

Ever since I wrote about old Gladstone Road several days ago, I have been thinking that perhaps a story about the schools, cinemas and amusement parks that disappeared during the KOMTAR redevelopment would also be in order. Many of them were located along Maxwell Road, another old street that vanished during the same redevelopment period. But roads alone do not make up a city. What truly gives life to an urban neighbourhood are the people, the schools where children studied, the cinemas where families gathered at night and the amusement parks where crowds drifted through beneath bright lights and loud music. Much of that old social landscape disappeared along with the roads.

When the KOMTAR project was launched in the 1970s, it was presented as a vision of modernisation for George Town. Large sections of the roughly triangular-shaped district, bordered by Prangin Road, McNair Street, Magazine Road and Penang Road, were cleared to make way for the massive 27-axre complex. Hundreds of buildings disappeared in the process. For many people today, especially younger Penangites, it is difficult to fathom just how densely packed and lively that part of town once was.

Along Maxwell Road and the nearby streets stood rows of traditional pre-war shophouses facing the old Prangin Canal. Many housed long-established Chinese family businesses such as metalsmiths hammering away in narrow workshops, bicycle and tyre shops, provision stores stacked with sacks of rice and dried goods, herbal medicine halls with drawers of roots and herbs, coffee shops and small trading companies dealing in everything from household utensils to joss paper offerings. Opposite these shophouses were compact roadside stalls selling inexpensive local goods and daily necessities to workers, students and shoppers passing through the area. Cobblers too were a common sight, quietly repairing worn shoes for customers seated nearby waiting patiently for the work to be completed.

The district was also one of George Town’s busiest transport hubs. Along Maxwell Road stood the old bus terminals and stopping points for the Lim Seng Seng green buses, the blue Hin Company buses and the familiar buses of the Penang Yellow Bus Company that connected the city to the suburbs. There was even a public toilet built on a pedestrian bridge across the canal, and one could not help wondering whether the waste went straight into the murky water below or was somehow channelled elsewhere for disposal. The entire area constantly moved with people: office workers, market traders, schoolchildren, cinema patrons and bus passengers all crossing paths from morning until late into the night. For a brief period from 1980 to 1983, I too became part of that daily flow of commuters, waiting along Maxwell Road for a green bus that would take me home to Ayer Itam.

Among the losses were four well-known cinemas that had once formed part of George Town’s busy entertainment circuit. There was the Capitol Theatre along Maxwell Road, built on land originally occupied by the Windsor Theatre. Nearby stood the Paramount Theatre and the Royal Theatre, both especially remembered for screening Hindi and Tamil films and attracting large Indian audiences from across Penang. Somewhere around where Komtar Walk is today, crowds once queued outside these cinemas. Then there was the Eastern Theatre, another familiar single-screen cinema that disappeared during the early redevelopment phase.

In those days, cinemas were not simply places to watch films. They were social gathering points. Young couples went there on dates, families planned weekend outings around them, and workers escaping the day’s heat found refuge inside the cool darkness of the theatre halls. Before television became dominant, these cinemas formed part of everyday urban life.

Several schools also vanished during the redevelopment. One of the most historically significant was Chung Hwa Confucian Primary School at Maxwell Road, among the oldest Chinese schools in the country. Its old premises served generations of students before the final batches left in 1979. The school later moved to Ayer Itam and split into Chung Hwa Confucian A and B.

Li Teik School also stood within the redevelopment zone. Interestingly, its Maxwell Road premises had once belonged to the old Anglo-Chinese School long before ACS moved to Ayer Itam Road in 1929. Li Teik inherited that educational space and carried on serving the local community until relocation became unavoidable. The school eventually shifted to Macallum Street Ghaut.

Then there was Tong Sian Primary School along Gladstone Road itself. Unlike the larger brick school compounds, Tong Sian functioned from converted pre-war shophouses in the crowded heart of the old neighbourhood. One can only imagine what school life must have been like there, surrounded by metalsmith shops, traders, food stalls and the nearby Sia Boey market. When Gladstone Road disappeared, the school too had to move, eventually settling at Dato Kramat Road where it remains today.

And somewhere amidst all this stood the old Great World Amusement Park. Older Penangites still remember it as one of the lively entertainment spaces of central George Town. There were games, food stalls, music and crowds wandering about in the evenings. Nearby too was the Fun & Frolic Park, another amusement area that formed part of the same nightlife landscape around Prangin and Magazine Roads. These places belonged to an era before shopping malls and multiplexes, when entertainment was more open-air, communal and slightly rough around the edges.

The redevelopment that produced KOMTAR undoubtedly changed George Town forever. From the planners’ perspective, it was meant to modernise the city and prepare it for the future. But in doing so, an older urban world disappeared. Roads vanished. Schools relocated. Cinemas closed. Amusement parks faded away. A neighbourhood that once remained active day and night gradually gave way to concrete plazas, office towers and wide traffic systems.

Today, when people walk through KOMTAR, Prangin Mall or Komtar Walk, very few would realise how much life once occupied the same ground. Beneath the modern structures lies an older layer of George Town memory, one filled with schoolchildren, cinema queues, market traders and the sounds of amusement parks glowing into the Penang night.