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, pesticides 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, the sharp beat of 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 strange 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.

Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur

Dateline: 4 December 2025. We had one full day in Jaipur, and we began our activities at Amber Fort. It rose from the Aravalli hills in a way that required us to take a second look. Perched above Maota Lake, its walls followed the ridgelines in sweeping curves. This was once the capital of the Kachwaha Rajputs, and much of what we saw dated back to the reign of Maharaja Man Singh I in the late 16th century, with later rulers adding their own layers to the structure. So what stood before us was not the vision of a single ruler but an accumulation of several over time. The coach parked a distance away and we continued our journey by local transport, one that could negotiate tight and narrow corners easily.

We passed through the great gates into Jaleb Chowk, the first courtyard, where returning armies once displayed their victory spoils. Today tourists have replaced soldiers and cameras, swords. Beyond it was the Diwan-e-Aam or Hall of Public Audience, that stretched across a forest of columns capped with elephant-shaped brackets.  

From there we moved through Ganesh Pol, the gateway to the private quarters. The frescoes and mosaics were delicate after the stern exterior walls. Beyond was the Sheesh Mahal or Mirror Palace, with its ceilings and walls set with thousands of tiny convex mirrors. The guide repeated the familiar tale of how a single candle could set the entire chamber aglow. Whether or not the claim was tested, it was easy to imagine the effect.

What struck me as much as the ornamentation was the engineering. Water from the lake below was drawn up through a system of wheels and channels to feed fountains and gardens within the fort. 

Standing along the ramparts, looking across the valley, I could take in the horizon. It was a commanding view; the Maharaja could see danger before it arrived and if flight was necessary, a subterranean passage was there to enable escape. Yet inside those defensive walls were gardens, courtyards and mirrored chambers. This was a self-contained world that balanced vigilance with splendour.

We then descended into the city and made our way to the City Palace. If Amber Fort felt martial and elevated, the City Palace felt grounded and administrative. Built in 1727 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II when he shifted his capital from the hills to the plains, it occupied the heart of the old city.

Mubarak Mahal, once a reception hall for visiting dignitaries, is now a museum displaying royal textiles and pashminas. Among them, an ancient Indian chess set caught my attention. In the Diwan-e-Khas or Hall of Private Audience stood the Gangajalis, two enormous silver urns said to be the largest silver vessels in the world. They once carried Ganges water to England for an eccentric maharaja unwilling to drink foreign water. 

A short distance away was the Hawa Mahal. Though within walking distance, the e-scooter took a somewhat roundabout way to reach it. Its five-storey facade, built in 1799, resembled a honeycomb of 953 small latticed windows. From behind these jharokhas, royal ladies watched processions without themselves being seen. The latticework also channeled air through the structure and offered respite from the heat.

Along the main road below ran the bazaars, the true pulse of the city. Where one ended and another began was hard for us to tell. Shops spilled into one another, selling items like jewellery, enamel work, textiles and leather products. The storefronts shared that distinctive Jaipur pink. Vehicular traffic pressed forward without pause. Scooters wove through pedestrians who in turn darted in and out of the shops in search of bargain. Dynamic balance between sacredness at Amber Fort, sovereignty at City Palace and commerce here in Hawa Mahal.

Our final stop was Birla Mandir at the foot of Moti Dungri Hill. After the histories of Amber Fort and City Palace, this white marble temple which opened in 1988 by the Birla Foundation felt almost too pristine. Its walls bore carvings not only of Hindu deities but also of figures such as Socrates, Buddha, Jesus and even Martin Luther King Jr. The main sanctum, however, was devoted to Vishnu and Lakshmi in finely carved marble. For unknown reasons, guards prevented visitors from taking photographs of the temple's interior. Futile effort, actually, because one could still take a picture of the deities with a long zoom lens from the outside.

The place was undeniably clean and orderly. Yet I did not find it impressive. Maybe I was simply too tired after a whole day of exploration. An overload of senses, of history, of culture. Perhaps it was also unfair to weigh a 20th-century temple against 17th- and 18th-century monuments. Still, Birla Mandir felt curated and unnatural, almost like a carefully assembled statement rather than something shaped gradually by time and trial.

All too soon the day drew to a close and we returned to our hotel, thankful for the rest. I sank into bed, switching off the lights and the noise of the day. The next morning we would leave for Delhi. After 14 days on the road, our journey was nearing its end.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi

Previous:
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

Tacoma in blossom season

The tacoma tree outside my house is in bloom again, and this year the flowering is unusually heavier than normal. Over the past two days I’ve swept up quite a pile of fallen blossoms and dried leaves from my compound and even from the stretch of road outside. There are lots more on the tree! Still, I’m not complaining. It’s all good exercise, actually!

This tree is one of the last tacomas left in the neighbourhood. When we first moved here about 25 years ago, they were everywhere. But one by one they were cut down as residents grew weary of sweeping up the constant fall of leaves and flowers. Along my street, I’m probably the only one still happily doing that yearly chore. The flowers are a delight to look at but the leaves, not so much. But what to do? You can’t have the best of everything. 🌼🍃

WAR greatest hits

I wrote this story about the band WAR a week ago and scheduled it to go out today. Then real war broke out in the Middle East last Saturday. Initial bombings by Israel on Tehran, the United States joining in with their own massive hardware, quick retaliation from Iran following swiftly after. For a moment I wondered whether to hold this story back. But then, it's just coincidence. So here it is.

I’ve had this copy of WAR Greatest Hits for years. The sleeve is slightly worn at the edges but the record still plays perfectly. It represents the moment when War stopped being anyone’s backing band and became a force on their own terms.

Long before the hits, there were a couple of Long Beach schoolboys in 1962, Howard Scott and Harold Brown, calling themselves The Creators. By the mid-1960s they’d added Lonnie Jordan, BB Dickerson and Charles Miller, and changed their name to Nightshift.

Then in 1969 came Eric Burdon looking for something rawer than the British Invasion circuit. He was brought to see Nightshift at a North Hollywood club. The result was a new name, WAR, a none too subtle name meant to confront racism, hunger and violence with music. The Burdon era gave them the hit single, Spill the Wine. The collaboration didn’t last. During a European tour in 1971, Burdon walked off stage and left. 

What followed, from 1971 to about 1976, is what this Greatest Hits record captures. The original seven members -- Jordan, Scott, Dickerson, Brown, Papa Dee Allen, Charles Miller and Lee Oskar -- didn’t need a new frontman. They all sang, played and built long grooves that could stretch past ten minutes.

One thing I can’t find on this Greatest Hits album is Spill the Wine. That’s because the Burdon-era recordings were released under different label arrangements, and by 1976 there were rights issues between MGM/ABC and United Artists. Even in music, wars over ownership leave their scars.

Listening now, what strikes me is how hard it is to categorise them: definitely funk but also some jazz phrasing, some Latin influence in the percussion. Lee Oskar’s harmonica almost functioning like a horn section of its own. Vocals often sung together, not spotlighting one personality but reinforcing a collective voice. Later years brought legal disputes, particularly over the name WAR. Eventually only Lonnie Jordan retained the right to tour under it while the other original members performed as the Lowrider Band. 

And yet, when I dropped the needle on this 1976 compilation, none of the real-world wars or the legal wars mattered. What I heard was a band at its commercial and creative peak, confident enough to let their music speak for itself. Perhaps that is the irony. In a week when war again means missiles and reprisals, this other WAR reminds me that the word can also signify rhythm, solidarity and the stubborn act of making something communal out of discord.

Side 1: All day music, Slippin' into darkness, The world is a ghetto, The Cisco kid, Gypsy man
Side 2: Me and baby brother, Southern part of Texas, Why can't we be friends, Low rider, Summer

Over in the blink of an eye

And just like that, Chinese New Year is over. All 15 days of it, gone in the twinkling of an eye.

Strange, considering the run-up lasted almost two months for me. The on-and-off spring cleaning, waking early to buy fruits for deity and ancestral worship, stocking up on fresh food for the long stretch of cooking ahead. And of course, preparing for the reunion dinner.

It’s not as though we don’t sit down regularly with my son and daughter. We do. But the Chinese New Year reunion dinner carries a different significance. A whole day is spent in preparation -- washing, chopping, simmering, tasting -- until evening comes and we finally sit down together to enjoy what we’ve made with our own hands. Usually roast chicken, garlic prawns, jiu hoo char, too tor soup. Sometimes a steamboat dinner, but not this year. The food tastes better for the effort.

Once that dinner is over, my annual pre-CNY duties begin. I gum strips of red paper carefully around each fruit, one by one, before arranging them neatly on plates for offering. Then come the gold-stamped worship papers, folded into paper ingots and lotus flowers. These will be burnt after the worship to Soo Kong, our house deity, and the Tnee Kong to welcome in the New Year. By the time everything is done, prayers said, incense offered, and suddenly it is usually close to 2am before we turn in.

The first day of Chinese New Year is vegetarian for us, from breakfast through to dinner. A tradition that has stayed, even as other habits have loosened over the years. We make our way to Bandar Tasek Mutiara to visit my mother-in-law, now the most senior member of the family since my parents and my aunt are no longer with us. Time does its quiet accounting. Generations shift almost without announcement.

Apart from that, we keep things simple. On the sixth day, when we are out visiting the Kuan Imm Teng and the Triple Wisdom Temple on the island, we drop by a long-time family friend’s home more out of habit than obligation. Otherwise, we stay home and wait for visitors, mostly relatives, the house filling and emptying in waves.

And then, before we quite realise it, Chap Goh Meh is upon us. On this day, I make my way to the Swee Cheok Tong, where my Kongsi makes its annual worship to the deities. Our principal deity is Tai Tay Yah, though Tua Pek Kong and Lo Chiah Kong are also prominent in the front hall. In the inner chamber are the Chow Moo Kong and Tay Choo Kong, along with the ancestral tablets. Once the noon worship is completed and the members have dispersed, I make my quiet way to Poh Hock Seah in Armenian Street to pay my respects to the resident Tua Pek Kong there. This is something I’ve done each year since my retirement.

So now, with the 15 days over, the mandarin oranges finished and the unused angpow packets put away, all that remain are the various unfinished Chinese New Year cookies. The red banner above the main doorway comes down, and the house returns to its ordinary rhythm. Two months of preparation. Fifteen days of observance. And it all passes as it always does.