Earliest memories, part 1

How far back can one’s memory really go? I’d say — and this is just my opinion — that a person’s earliest memories probably stretch back to around five or six years old. Anything earlier than that is a bit wonly, at least for me. Sure, photos from way back can stir up vague memories of childhood, but I wouldn’t count that as truly remembering those earliest years. 

You might look at a picture and think, "Was I one or three years old when that happened?" but that's probably the extent of it. Can anyone really recall those moments without the photos to jog their memory? I have pictures of myself at five months old, seven months old, and if I were to rely solely on those, I could say I remember the times when my parents rolled out the mats and baby mattresses on the open back terrace on the first floor of our home on Seang Teik Road. There I was, lying on my belly or sitting upright on the mattress, with those moments captured forever by my father's camera. Did all this happen when I was less than a year old? Yes, it did. But do I genuinely remember it? No, I don’t. So, that doesn’t really count as a memory.

My first real memories from childhood come much later, probably when I was around five or six years old. I was an only child then with no siblings close to my age, and I wasn’t allowed to play with the neighbourhood kids. The neighbours were tradesmen or hawkers and my parents had that concern that their children were perhaps uncouth, naughty and rough. Hey, I could have been easily influenced and turned into a ruffian or a hooligan of sorts if allowed to mix freely with them! So, I became a solitary precious little boy to them. I had to invent my own games within the confines of the house to keep myself entertained. 

One of those memories is of playing with marbles in the airwell of the house. I kept my marbles in a tin can — there must have been 30 or 40 of them in there. I’d shake the can vigorously, making a tremendous racket, only to be hushed by my mother. "Shhh, don’t wake your grandma. She’s asleep." I’d stop for a while, but the next time I brought out the tin, I’d give it another good shake and receive the same scolding. There was a small. shallow depression along one side of the airwell, which served as drainage for rainwater. Whenever it rained, the water would flow along this depression into a drain inside the house and then out to the larger drain in the back lane. I would block off one end of the airwell's drain and use it as a makeshift play area for my marbles. For a bit of variety, I’d also play with the old Nyonya granite mill which my grandmother used for grinding her rice. The circular depression in the mill provided endless hours of fun with my marbles — who would have thought!

Then there were the cigarette box trains. Back in those days, my father was a heavy smoker, so there were always plenty of empty cigarette boxes around the house. All the boxes, hundreds of them, would be collected, and when it was time to play, I’d line them up painstakingly in a snaky pattern on the floor — the longer, the better — winding under tables and chairs, from the front hall to the kitchen, and back. As long as the floor was level, the more twisted and complicated the design, the better. There was the occasional frustration when a cigarette box was accidentally toppled and it set off the train, the frantic efforts to rescue the remaining painstaking work, but by and large it was great fun setting off the train and watching the boxes tumble one after another along the path. Maybe an hour's work for a few minutes of pleasure. But it was worth it!

The flat, level floor from the front of the house to the kitchen was more than just a space to play cigarette box trains or walk across — it was also my personal cycling track. I’d start with my little tricycle, pedalling around the main table in the front hall, navigating tight corners and tearing down the corridor. As I grew older and more confident, my cycling became better controlled and my attempts to take corners sharper. I would weave in and out between the tables and chairs, challenging myself to avoid crashing into the furniture. The thrill was to see how close I could get without toppling over or banging into anything. Sometimes, I'd pretend it was a race track, imagining myself as a speed racer, and other times, it was an obstacle course, with tables and chairs forming exciting barriers to manoeuvre around. The track felt like it was all mine — a place where I could ride freely and test my limits.

Then there were my toys, which were stored upstairs in my parents' bedroom, packed away in a large kerosene tin. Whenever the rain poured outside, it was my cue to turn that tin upside down and pour out my collection. I had an assortment of toys, though the memories of them are a bit fuzzy now. I do distinctly remember the small plastic toy soldiers that warmed my heart. The same ones as in the Disney film, Toy Story, each character was frozen in a different pose — some crouched low, others aiming rifles and a few with binoculars as if scouting for an enemy. I’d set them up in all sorts of battle formations across the floor or on the bed, creating imaginary battlefields and missions, only to knock them over and start again. 

I also remember my board games, though with nobody to play with: Snakes and Ladders, Ludo, Chinese Checkers and Draughts — but no Chess as this game came very much later to me — along with Happy Family, Donkey, Snap and Old Maid among other card games. I taught myself to play Snakes and Ladders, Ludo and Chinese Checkers alone — oh, poor me! These simple games were a welcome distraction on rainy afternoons, each one bringing its own bit of amusement to my solitary childhood days.

One of my most treasured toys was my Bayko construction set. It had all sorts of metal rods, baseplates and bakelite pieces that let me build miniature houses and buildings. The sense of accomplishment I felt after piecing together those structures was immeasurable — even if they were far from perfect. I could spend hours designing new layouts, trying out different combinations of windows, doors and roof shapes. It was like having my own little architectural playground. As I got older, my construction projects extended well into my primary school days. The Bayko set was always my go-to, especially on rainy afternoons when I could construct and immerse myself in my tiny world while the rain kept falling outside.

All in all, the house was more than just a home; it was a place of endless adventure and imagination, filled with the joy of simple games and cherished toys that made my childhood uniquely my own. 

As a postscript to all that I've written, I must add that the experience of being a precious little boy wasn’t unique to me; it was quite common in those days. One of my closest friends — we were at Westlands School together — had an overly protective grandmother, a prim and proper nyonya lady with a sanggul and dressed in baju kebaya and sarong, who came to the school by trishaw every single day before recess to bring him something nourishing from home. Oddly enough, she had other grandchildren, but this special treatment was reserved just for him, my close friend. Every recess, there she’d be in the canteen with a tiffin carrier. And after he’d eaten his fill, he wasn’t allowed to join the rest of us running around or playing games for fear of sweat ruining his school uniform. No, he had to stand quietly by the staircase until the bell rang and everyone had to rush back to the classroom. A precious little boy, indeed. At the time, he accepted it as he was required to, but now he looks back with some regret, frustrated that he wasn’t allowed to mix with the other boys during those precious recess moments.