Old Mr Goon

Whenever I stop at the traffic lights at the Dato Kramat Road/Petani Road junction, my eyes seldom fail to be drawn to the quiet shophouse building, devoid of people and sound, seemingly abandoned but not quite, belonging to the Penang Hindu Sabah. 

This is a very old association, established on 21 January 1912. Their first building was located up the road at 45 Dato Kramat Road, which they occupied on the 18th of August that year. Four years later in June, the Sabha acquired their present premises at 205 Dato Kramat Road for a sum of $5,250 received from spontaneous donations. Relocation took place on 31 August 1916 with the building opened for prayers at 5am according to Hindu principles and sastras. Public access to the place was from the third of September.

The front of the building's ground floor was closed with a modern roller shutter, but it was never like this originally. Memories may be hazy but my earliest recollection of this building dates back to the 1960s when the front was always bustling with people from the Indian community. The men would be in their white dhotis, with foreheads smeared with white ash, and sometimes going topless. Then there were the movements, activities and colours, especially during festivals, weddings and other community functions when gaiety ruled and music blared ceaselessly from loudspeakers. Across the top of the opened entrance strung the traditional thoranam, meant to bring luck and ward off evil. The original signboard at the building used to declare Penang Hindu Sabha, but by 2017 it had been replaced with a new one that changed the name to its present spelling.

I do have some faded recollection of visiting the building several times in 1968. Although the Penang Hindu Sabha provides financial and material assistance to underprivileged Indians, they are known to extend services to other communities too. It was under such circumstances that I used to visit my old language tuition teacher, an elderly Chinese gentleman I called Mr Goon. He could be in his 60s then, and I never knew his full name. He dressed meticulously in a white shirt and white khaki trousers, with accompanying black shoes. When I was in Form Three, he eked out a simple living by tutoring me and a few other boys and girls in the English language. Somehow, he managed to rent a room in nearby Siam Road for his classes.

Like all teachers in English schools before the Second World War, the Japanese Occupation took a heavy toll on him, and he never recovered his stature in society after the surrender. Many families were forced to live in rented rooms until the end of their lives. Mr Goon lived in such a rented room at the Penang Hindu Sabha, where he spent his time diligently typing out exercise materials for his tuition classes. My family felt for him and occasionally, we would buy foodstuffs which I would deliver to him. We parted company after I entered Form Four. 

When I saw him several years later, I was shocked by his appearance. He came to my home by trishaw, wearing a sarong and hobbling on two crutches. One of his legs had been amputated due to diabetes. He was too dignified to beg for money but asked instead whether my family could lend him some.

Visibly shocked by his dire straits, my father tried to help him as much as we could afford. Thanking us profusely, he climbed back into the trishaw and was quickly pedalled away. That was the last time I ever saw Mr Goon, and for a very long time, whenever I passed by the Penang Hindu Sabha building, I still paused to look at it and imagined that old Mr Goon was still living there in that small room on the ground floor below the staircase. Such memories do not fade easily.

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