Nepal-India interlude

So finally, we’ve returned home from a 17-day jaunt through Nepal and northern India. It was a journey that carried us along the Buddhist pilgrimage trail and then onward to some of India’s most famous heritage sites, the sort of places I had long read about but never quite imagined visiting in a single sweep. We moved from the bustle of Kathmandu to the chill of Nagarkot, then down the plains to Lumbini, Shravasti and Kushinagar, before looping through Rajgir and Bodhgaya and ending with the more familiar tourist circuit of Varanasi, Agra, Jaipur and Delhi. 

For the pilgrimage part of the trip, we stood at the very spot where the Buddha was born — and I felt especially privileged to have visited it twice within a year — visited where he attained enlightenment and walked the grounds where he delivered his first sermon. We also made our way to the places associated with his life, his passing into parinibbāna and his cremation. Each site made more meaningful by the slow rhythm of travel and the shared sense of purpose among the group.

The heritage section of the tour felt like stepping into another story altogether. We found ourselves gazing at the perfect symmetry of the Taj Mahal in Agra, wandering through the great Amber Fort in Jaipur and looking up at the centuries-old Qutub Minar in Delhi. Much of the time though, we were on the move. Long stretches in bus coaches and a seven-hour train ride from Varanasi to Agra. 

Travel days blurred into one another, but there were moments that stood out. One morning, before sunrise, we boarded a boat for a dawn cruise on the Ganges. The river was already alive with activity. We saw cremations taking place along the ghats, the smoke curling into the sky, and further downstream, Hindus stepping into the cold water to perform their ritual cleansing. 

At some point I hope to write more fully about our experiences, but for now I should say that the hotels were generally very good, with only one or two that were less than ideal. Still, each added its own stamp on the journey. We were careful with our meals, eating mostly in hotels or well-established restaurants, keeping an eye out for anything that might upset the stomach, and guarding our drinking water like treasure. Before we left, we’d dutifully gone for our influenza, typhoid and hepatitis jabs, so at least we had some protection. Even so, we weren’t spared entirely. Somewhere along the way, the coughs began. It turned into a chorus because it wasn’t only us but almost everyone on the bus, all 38 of us. The only people who seemed completely unaffected were the guides and drivers, who moved through the dust and pollution with the unbothered air of seasoned veterans. They rarely wore masks and breathed in the city smog as though it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

Still, despite the coughs and the long hours on the road, it was a marvellous journey. One of those trips that stays with you long after the suitcases have been unpacked and the laundry sorted, and already I find myself wanting to shape the memories into something more permanent on this blog.

Casto Abundo (1950-2025)

Casto Abundo was one of those people whose presence in chess felt so constant that one somehow assumed he would always be there, quietly keeping the game running. To many he was Casto, but to his friends he was simply Toti, and in the Philippines and across Asia that name carried weight. I first came to know him in the 1970s, when the Asian chess scene was still finding its feet and characters like him gave the region its early momentum. Years later, during his time as FIDE’s executive director, he surprised me with a small but meaningful gesture: an invitation to write a few stories for the FIDE newsletter. For someone like me, scribbling away in Malaysia, it felt like a doorway into a much larger world. We corresponded for a while before life pulled us in different directions.

Picture from World Chess Federation, FIDE

Toti’s career was enormous in scope. Over the past 50 years he was everywhere in world chess as an arbiter, organiser and administrator. He was one of those rare people who could move between all three roles with ease. He had been a trusted colleague of Florencio Campomanes and served FIDE in positions that demanded both competence and diplomacy: FIDE General Secretary from 1988 to 1990, and later FIDE Executive Director from 1994 to 1998. Even after Campo stepped away from the spotlight, Toti stayed on and anchored himself within FIDE as a member of the Rules Commission and the Qualification Commission, and eventually as Executive Director of the Asian Chess Federation. 

As an arbiter, he stood on some of the biggest stages. He was the Chief Arbiter of the 2000 World Championship Match and the 2001 World Cup, and one of the organisers of the 1992 Chess Olympiad. He was also a committed FIDE Arbiter Lecturer, patiently shaping new generations of arbiters even as his own health began to falter in later years. What stood out was his sense of duty. Even after bouts of ill health, he never really slowed down. Right up to the end he continued organising and conducting courses; in fact, I reconnected with him only in the middle of last year after the Eastern Asia Youth Chess Championship event in Penang, when I joined his online international organisers’ workshop. Hearing his voice again after so many years was strangely comforting. It was the same calm, authoritative tone I remembered from decades before.

People sometimes forget that Toti was also a strong chessplayer in his own right. He was rated 2175 at the time of his passing, meaning he approached the game not only from the administrative side but from a deep personal understanding of its competitive core. That combination of player, arbiter, organiser, historian and administrator was what made him so valuable. Whenever Asian federations needed help with rating or title matters, or when organisers sought guidance, it was Toti who provided the clarity and the path forward.

His passing at the age of 75 leaves a gap that will be felt far beyond the Philippines. Asian chess, in particular, has lost one of its great stewards and the many FIDE commissions and committees he served will feel the absence of his experience and quiet authority. For those of us who crossed paths with him over the years, whether briefly or over decades, the loss is personal too. I’m glad to have known Toti, even in small ways, across the long arc of his work in the game.

This endless road

From schooldays, we were taught the familiar picture: the planets revolve around a stationary Sun, following orbits that are technically elliptical but, for most of them, close enough to circular. The moons, in turn, circle their parent planets. It was a simple, elegant model and for a long time, many of us assumed the entire solar system sat more or less fixed in the sky, unmoving except for the planets tracing their slow, predictable paths around the Sun.

Only much later, over the past three decades or so, did I begin to appreciate that this picture is incomplete. From the perspective of Earth, we look stationary except for our daily rotation that gives us day and night. The other planets spin too, each in their own way, and because everything seems regular and orderly, it’s easy to imagine the whole system as a stable “clockwork” floating in place.

But in reality, the solar system itself is on the move. The Sun and its planets are orbiting the centre of the Milky Way, completing one galactic circuit roughly every 230 million years. Once you take this into account, a very different image emerges: the planets are not moving in flat circles, but in long, elegant corkscrew paths as they follow the Sun on its galactic journey.

This can be a difficult concept to picture, so I was very happy to come across a computer-generated simulation by amateur astronomer Tony Dunn. His visualisation, covering a hypothetical 20-year period from a vantage point more than 50 astronomical units away, shows the sweeping arcs of Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto, while the inner planets appear as tight, rapid spirals so quick that labelling them clearly becomes impossible. Still, one can roughly identify them: grey for Mercury, light yellow for Venus, light blue for Earth and orange for Mars.

And all of this is happening at astonishing speeds. Our solar system races through the galaxy at about 230 kilometres per second or around 830,000 kilometres per hour. Meanwhile, the Milky Way itself is moving through the universe at an estimated 2.3 million kilometres per hour. As for the centre of the universe, no one knows where that might be, or whether such a centre even exists in any meaningful way.

What we do know is this: we are not standing still in space. Far from it. We are passengers on a vast journey, carried through the galaxy without ever sensing the motion. And this, in its own quiet way, echoes the Buddha’s reminder that nothing in existence is ever fixed. All things arise, change and pass away. Our lives unfold in the same manner: we board the bus of life, ride for a time and eventually step off, while new passengers climb aboard. The bus keeps moving, just as the universe keeps turning, indifferent to who comes and goes.

To reflect on this is to see the nature of samsara laid bare. A constant movement, a constant becoming. It is humbling, but also gently liberating. In a cosmos that never stops, the only true stillness is the one we cultivate within, moment by moment, as we travel together on this endless road.

Letting go

Today marks three months since Saw See took the plunge to ordain as a temporary sayalay at the Nandaka Vihara meditation society. I’m immensely proud of her. Not many ladies would willingly part with their hair, even for a short period, and I must admit that my wife was very brave indeed. She had been thinking about this for many years but never quite felt ready for such a transformation. When she finally decided, I knew I had to stand beside her and give her my wholehearted support. After all, it was only for eight days, and her hair would grow back soon enough.

The past few months brought their own small challenges. As I had warned her, her silver and grey patches stood out more conspicuously as they grew, but she took it all in her stride. When she went outdoors for programmes, she often wore a headscarf, and naturally, she attracted curious glances. At first, I sensed her discomfort — people seemed to look at her as if she were recovering from some illness — but she soon grew accustomed to it.

I wouldn’t be writing this if Saw See herself had not shared her experience on Facebook. Now that she’s made it public, I might as well share it here too.

*To Be or Not to Be… a Sayalay*

“To be or not to be.”

This question has lingered in my mind for many years, especially whenever Nandaka Vihara announced its temporary ordination programme for adults.

To be ordained as a temporary Sayalay, even just once in my lifetime has always been on my wish list. Yet, letting go of my hair remained my biggest challenge (I must admit, vanity still had its hold on me!).

Curious, I once asked Bhante Dhammasubho, “Why should a layperson ordain at least once in their life?”

Bhante’s reply was both simple and profound: “To be the daughter or son of the Buddha.”

(Buddhaputta – son of the Buddha; Buddhadhītā – daughter of the Buddha*)

Later, I posed the same question to Bhante Mahanama, who wisely said, “To plant the seed of Dhamma for future lives.”

These two answers deeply touched my heart and gave me the courage to finally “lose my hair.”

I also remembered Bhante Revata’s gentle encouragement a few years ago. When I told him I had been thinking about ordaining for years, he smiled and said, “You just need a little push.” This time, I gave myself that big push and registered for the temporary ordination programme held from 30 August to 7 September 2025 at Nandaka Vihara.

Becoming a temporary Sayalay was a dream come true, truly the best gift I could ever give myself. The peace and tranquillity of the monastic life were beyond words. The morning and evening chantings, ovāda from the Chief Abbot, and Dhamma talks by Bhante Revata, Bhante Panadipa, Bhante Upasanta, and Bhante Punnacara filled each day with mindfulness and joy.

The piṇḍapāta (alms round) with the Sangha and fellow Sayalays was especially humbling, a sacred moment of walking in the footsteps of the Buddha. My meditation interview with Bhante Mahanama also helped deepen my practice and understanding.

I am deeply grateful to Bhante Dhammasubho and all the venerable teachers for their guidance and kindness. This journey has strengthened my faith in the Buddha, the Dhamma, and the Sangha. May I be blessed with the opportunity to ordain again in the near future.

I share all my merits with the Devas, the Sangha, my teachers, my mother, siblings, husband, children, and everyone who made this ordination possible for me.

I dedicate these merits to all beings, and to my departed relatives and friends, especially my beloved father. May they rejoice in these accumulated merits, be reborn in higher realms, and attain Nibbāna in the shortest possible time.

May all beings be well and happy wherever they may be.

Ultra-processed

Yesterday, I wrote about having attended a health talk on aflatoxins—those invisible toxins that can grow on grains, nuts and spices when they’re improperly stored in humid conditions—and food safety, and it left me thinking about what really goes into our daily meals. It’s quite concerning how some of the things we eat, which we think are okay for us, can turn out to be more complicated than they appear.  For example, the dangers that come from consuming deep-fried food too often. It was eye-opening to learn how burnt food could quietly damage the liver or, over time, lead to serious diseases.

But what caught my attention even more was something closer to home: the food products that line supermarket shelves and health stores, all neatly labelled “nutritional,” “balanced” or “scientifically formulated.” Products like Glucerna and Nutren, for example. They’re popular among older folks and people with diabetes, and they’re certainly convenient. Just flip open the lid, mix the powder in warm water and drink. But convenience often hides complexity.

I learned that these so-called meal replacements fall under what nutrition experts now call “ultra-processed foods.” They’re made from refined carbohydrates, isolated proteins, sweeteners, vegetable oils and a cocktail of stabilisers and artificial flavours: all carefully engineered to provide complete nutrition. In theory, they contain everything the body needs. But in practice, they’re still industrial formulations, far removed from the natural foods we grew up eating.

There’s nothing immediately dangerous about them, of course. Used sensibly, they can be a helpful supplement. The problem begins when they start to replace real meals altogether. They lack the living texture of food, such as fibre, the subtle nutrients and the natural balance that fresh ingredients bring. Over time, the body feels the difference, even if blood tests don’t show it right away.

I suppose this is one of the ironies of modern living. We’ve made great progress in medicine and nutrition, yet we’ve drifted farther from the simplicity of natural food. I’ve often thought back to how our parents and grandparents cooked with patience, simple ingredients and little waste. They didn’t have to read labels or worry about emulsifiers and trans fats.

So perhaps the lesson is not to be fearful, but to be aware. There’s no harm in occasionally reaching for a bottle of Glucerna or Nutren, especially when health or appetite falters. But they should stay as the exception, not the rule. Nothing replaces the goodness of a meal that’s cooked, shared and enjoyed fresh. And if we can manage that most days, I think our bodies will thank us in ways that no supplement ever could.

Aflatoxin

We attended a talk earlier this month that left quite an impression on me. It was about the food we eat every day. The speaker, Dr Steve Kuan, spoke about two hidden dangers that most of us probably don’t think about: aflatoxins and the harmful compounds that form when food is deep-fried, especially with reused oil. I must admit, I’d heard of food contamination before, but never realised how quietly these things creep into our lives.

Aflatoxins, we were told, are among the most potent natural toxins known. They come from certain types of mould, Aspergillus flavus and Aspergillus parasiticus, that grow easily in warm, humid places like ours. Once they infect crops such as peanuts, corn, rice, chillies, sesame or even spices, they produce an invisible toxin that stays behind even when the food looks and smells fine. It’s not just a minor health issue; long-term exposure can damage the liver, and in severe cases, lead to liver cancer. The talk mentioned that aflatoxin B1 is classified as a Group 1 carcinogen by the World Health Organization, meaning it’s a confirmed cause of cancer in humans. Children, too, are especially vulnerable; chronic exposure has been linked to stunted growth and developmental problems.

Listening to all this, I found myself thinking about the simple things we take for granted, for example, a jar of ground peanuts, a bag of rice or a packet of spices from the market. So much depends on how these foods are dried, stored and transported. Moisture and warmth can turn a harvest into a hazard, yet the problem remains invisible until it’s too late.

The second part of the talk turned to something far more familiar: deep-fried food. That one hit home instantly. Who among us doesn’t love something fried: a crispy snack at tea-time, a plate of char koay teow or fried fritters from a roadside stall? Yet frying at high heat, especially when the same oil is reused, can produce toxic compounds called Advanced Glycation End Products (AGEs) and trans fats. They may sound harmless enough, but these compounds quietly promote inflammation, harden our blood vessels and raise the risks of diabetes and heart disease.

It made me think of all those times I’ve seen stalls with oil that’s clearly been used over and over again. The golden crispness comes at a price we don’t see right away. It’s not about avoiding fried food altogether, but being mindful of how it’s prepared, and perhaps choosing steaming, boiling or poaching a little more often. I was also surprised to learn that a splash of lemon juice or vinegar in cooking can reduce the formation of those harmful AGEs. Small things, really, but they make a difference.

What stayed with me after the talk was how fragile our food chain really is, from the fields where crops are harvested to the kitchens where we cook our meals. Clean storage, careful cooking and a bit of knowledge can make all the difference. It’s not about becoming fearful or fussy, but about being a little more aware of what goes into our food. Most of the time, the danger isn’t what we can see but the quiet, invisible things that build up over time. If we can make small changes here and there, whether it’s drying our grains properly, choosing fresher oil or going easy on the deep-fried treats, then perhaps we’re already doing enough to keep ourselves and our families safe.

Hidden message

When I wrote recently about the old angpow my late mother had given me for Chinese New Year sometime in the early 1980s, I didn’t expect it to stir up an old, half-forgotten fascination of mine: the intricate security designs of our old currency notes. Modern banknotes are created through an elaborate digital process with layers of computer-aided design, specialised software and machine-readable security features woven together with mathematical precision. Today’s notes are products of technology.

But before the digital age, countries relied on the skill of master engravers whose craftsmanship brought complexity to life through metal plates, steady hands and specialised printing machines. Every line, swirl and shading was carved manually, and it was this human touch, precise yet artistic, that made forgery so difficult.

When I looked again at the one-dollar note, I found myself mesmerised by its delicate patterns and the sheer effort they must have required. These engravers were in demand worldwide, each called upon to create designs that were not only beautiful but impossible to imitate.

I remember, back when I was working at the bank in the early 1980s, someone challenged us to examine the back of the one-dollar note for a hidden mark. We peered at it endlessly, and soon enough, being bank staff, we spotted it: a tiny, cheeky surprise tucked into the top border. Was it accidental, or did the engraver have a sense of humour? Because there it was, the word HAWAII, disguised within the ends of the wavy lines. A little secret left behind by a craftsman, still waiting to be discovered decades later.

The Penang Open

It's exactly one month away from the start of the 17th Penang heritage city international chess open 2025. Venue shall be the Wesley Methodist International School near the Karpal Singh Drive. 

The big question is whether I can afford the time to be continually present at this year's Penang Chess Festival. There are domestic issues to settle, not insurmountable, but will require some effort. So I suppose it will have to be a wait-and-see and hope the situation clarifies by the time the chess festival kicks off. 

Anyway, anyone wanting to play in this annual tournament of the Penang Chess Association will know what to do. This image is just too blur for proper reading. Just go to penangchess.com for the details and register not only for this event but also the annual Penang Chess League which, unfortunately for many players, is just too close to Christmas.

WW2 ended 80 years ago

I came across these images on Facebook today, showing Penang’s Remembrance Day ceremony at the Cenotaph. It was a solemn gathering, attended by Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow together with representatives from the country’s war veterans, the army, air force and navy, as well as officials from the British High Commission and the Embassy of Nepal.

Organised annually by the Penang Veterans’ Association, their 24th time actually, the ceremony honours those who gave their lives in World War I, World War II, the Malayan Emergency, the Indonesian Confrontation, and other conflicts that shaped our history.

Chow reminded those present that this year marks 80 years since the end of the Second World War and 36 years since the close of the Malaysian Communist Insurgency—two chapters defined by fear, hardship and profound upheaval. 

In those darkest years, he said, soldiers and countless civilians stepped forward with extraordinary courage to defend the nation’s peace and sovereignty. Many never returned; many returned changed forever; and many families carried burdens that time could never fully erase.

“We can never repay their sacrifice,” he said, “but we can pause our busy lives, come together as a community, and honour them. We remember their service, we cherish their sacrifices, and we thank them for what they continue to represent today.”

Also present were Bukit Bendera MP Syerleena Abdul Rashid, the Embassy of Nepal’s Charge d’Affaires Mudita Bajracharya, and the British High Commission’s director of trade and investment, Richard Colley

Four hundred days

I have a confession but all is well now. A few days ago, I made a discovery that sent a chill through me. I realised, quite by accident, that I had completely forgotten to renew my car insurance and with it, my road tax as well. Just a small car, see, an almost 10-year-old Perodua Viva with only around 50,000 kilometres driven. Used by my wife and I mainly for mainland commutes and only occasionally straying across the bridge to the island. I tried to renew everything online, hoping it was just a small oversight, something missed by a day or two. But every attempt failed. Something wasn’t right.

So I contacted a general insurance company for help. That was when the real shock came. My insurance, they told me, hadn’t just lapsed recently. It had expired more than four hundred days ago. I could hardly believe it. I had somehow convinced myself it was only last year, or at most three months ago, that I had last renewed it. My mind had clearly been too preoccupied with other things.

At that moment, I had a frightening thought: what if there had been an accident? I dread to imagine the consequences. No insurance, no valid road tax. The financial and legal fallout would have been disastrous. It was a sobering reminder of how easily negligence, even unintentional, can lead to ruin.

What followed was a tedious stretch of procedures, forms, checks and verifications over several weeks. Each step felt like a small penance for my forgetfulness. But finally, after jumping through every requirement, the insurance company approved my application. I now have a new policy in hand, and my road tax has been safely renewed.

A wave of relief washed over me. It was a close call, far too close, and I’ve learnt my lesson well. In the rush of daily life, even simple obligations can slip through the cracks. Still, the important thing is that it was caught in time… and all is well now.

Red packet design

I was rummaging through my clothes drawer recently and came across an old angpow — a red packet my mother had given me one Chinese New Year in the early 1980s, certainly before 1985. Back then, this design felt as modern as things could get. Businesses, including Ban Hin Lee Bank, were still rather traditional in their outlook, and the angpow rarely strayed from its standard four-by-two-inch size. It wasn’t until the turn of the millennium that banks began experimenting with bolder designs and shapes. Since then, the humble red packet has evolved into something of a collector’s item, as financial institutions compete to outdo one another in creativity and style.

A complete unknown

Recently, I sat down to watch A Complete Unknown and found myself absorbed. It wasn’t just the music or the 1960s atmosphere that caught me, but how uncannily Timothée Chalamet seemed to become Bob Dylan. The lean frame, the half-mumbled defiance, the distant look of someone who’s already somewhere else in his mind. All of it rang true. Maybe make-up and costume had a hand in it, but there was something more than imitation going on. Chalamet captured that strange, inward energy that Dylan had in those years when he broke away from everyone’s expectations and remade himself.

But who exactly is this Timothée Chalamet, the young man behind the curly hair and the harmonica? I remembered seeing him before in The King on Netflix, playing Henry V, another restless young man thrust unwillingly into greatness. It seems to be his thing: slipping into the skin of real people on the edge of transformation, feeling their uncertainty and ambition as though it were his own.

Born in 1995 in New York City, Chalamet grew up surrounded by the performing arts. His mother had danced on Broadway and he went to LaGuardia High School, the same institution that shaped so many performers who balance talent with a touch of intensity. After a few minor roles, his moment came in 2017 with Call Me by Your Name in which he gave a performance that felt spontaneous and transparent. That film established his screen identity as emotionally open, a little fragile, thoughtful but never mannered.

Since then, Chalamet has alternated between introspective dramas and grand spectacle. Films like Beautiful Boy, Little Women and Dune added to his credibility. When he played Henry V in The King, he seemed both regal and lost, the boy beneath the crown. I could sense his fascination with power, and its emptiness.

Chalamet, of course, stands as the quiet antithesis of the traditional Hollywood leading man: the beefy, brawny hero who conquers by force. His appeal lies in a different kind of strength: the courage to appear uncertain, even fragile. He makes vulnerability cinematic again, reminding us that sensitivity and self-doubt can carry as much dramatic weight as muscle and bravado. Where others stride through chaos, Chalamet seems to absorb it inwardly, as if the real battle is always within.

Which brings me back to A Complete Unknown, his foray into the myth of Bob Dylan. The film focused on Dylan’s folk beginnings and transition to electric, the mid-1960s pivot when the folk hero turned his back on purists, plugged in and was booed for it. The title, drawn from that immortal line in Like a Rolling Stone, hinted at the cost of reinvention, how every artist must risk alienation to grow.

What was remarkable was that Chalamet did his own singing and guitar work. No miming, no studio trickery. He wanted to feel what Dylan might have felt: the rasp of voice meeting microphone, the tension between control and release. That sort of dedication wasn’t about method acting. It was about empathy, about finding the heartbeat of another creator who also chose the harder path.

Watching him, I couldn’t help thinking that A Complete Unknown wasn’t just about Bob Dylan’s metamorphosis. It was also about Chalamet’s own. At 29, he’s already negotiating that uneasy space between prodigy and artist, between fame and credibility. Like Dylan in 1965, he’s testing his boundaries, refusing to be pinned down. And maybe that’s the real connection between them: two restless spirits drawn to the idea that identity, like art, is fluid.

OFA members' chess day

The OFA closed chess tournament was months in the planning before it saw the light of day. At the beginning of this year when I was attempting to interest the management committee of The Old Frees' Association in a third edition of the OFA Open, the request came back that the committee would prefer a closed tournament instead of an open event. 

However, me and my two cohorts - Ung Tay Aik and Terry Ong - sat on it until about two months ago after we came back from the Merdeka team event in Kuala Lumpur. It has to be organised, we agreed, and we began looking at possible dates. But the bigger problem was to decide on where to organise it. 

The multi-purpose hall at the Northam Road clubhouse was out of the question because it was undergoing a massive renovation. So we thought the library on the first floor would be a good choice. Then about two weeks ago, we learnt that the OFA Office was moving there temporarily on account of the said renovation on the ground floor. Finally, we decided on using the Bay Avenue premises and that was where the players gathered yesterday for the tournament. 

Since the tournament managed to attract only 10 players, it was decided to play it on a round-robin basis. I had looked forward to playing myself but two weeks ago had to pull back when my daughter said that she would be back from Kuala Lumpur on the same day to celebrate my birthday, although belatedly. Between chess and the jewel of my life, there is no prize for guessing correctly what is more important to me. 

Nevertheless, I turned up at OFA Bay Avenue in the afternoon to watch the final three rounds before going to my birthday dinner. Though it was a closed event and everyone knew one another, the games were taken seriously, with all the players deep in thought over their boards. Naturally, there were winners and losers, but I reminded them that the results were secondary to the camaraderie which mattered more. The day gave the chess members a chance to meet and play, a fact not lost on many of the players. There were proposals to organise a get-together again for a blitz tournament. Why not, if the response is there?

Another point I'd like to make is that rather than calling it the OFA Closed Chess Tournament, I’d rather think of yesterday as the OFA Members’ Chess Day, which we celebrated with a tournament. Perhaps next year, we can have another OFA Chess Day, making it bigger, livelier and with more members joining in the fun.

PS. With this closed tournament done and dusted, the OFA chess section's annual budget has been busted. Completely depleted. We'd like to send at least one team to this year's Penang Chess League but I doubt it is now possible.

Birthday moon

When I was out admiring the super full moon on the night of my birthday two days ago, I couldn’t help but wonder why the Americans and Europeans had special names for each full moon in their skies. For example, this November full moon is known to the Americans as the Beaver Moon. It’s also called the Frost Moon, while the Europeans sometimes refer to it as the Fog Moon.

Over Bukit Mertajam, though, the full moon on this fifth of November wasn’t exactly brilliant. The rainy weather dimmed its glow, leaving it soft-edged and slightly veiled. Still, it was bright enough for me to take a satisfactory snapshot, my quiet keepsake on my birthday night.

Super full moons usually come in a set of three. Three consecutive full moons that appear a little larger and brighter than usual because the moon is at its closest point to Earth. This November full moon happens to be the second in the trio. The first was last month’s Mid-Autumn Festival moon, and the third will rise on the fourth of December.

Exposure: ISO 1250, f7.1, 1/200s

Exposure: ISO 1250, f7.1, 1/800s

Health perils

It’s that time of year again. Another journey completed around the sun. My 71st. And now I’m looking forward to the 72nd, hoping it’ll be a steady, uneventful ride. Wish me luck; I think I’ll need it. The trouble with growing older is that the body starts sending reminders of everything you’ve put it through.

I’ve lived with diabetes for quite some time now, a quarter of a century, kept in check with metformin and gliclazide. But even before that, back in my late 30s, I had my first real taste of pain from uric acid stones in the kidney. I still remember that morning: waking up to an excruciating pain in the back that spread down to a dull ache in the groin. That episode taught me that good health isn’t something to take for granted.

For many years, I used to be a regular blood donor, proud of doing my small part. Then one day, the hospital turned me down because my blood pressure was high. That marked the end of those donation days. Soon after, I was started on cholesterol medication too. Just to be safe, the doctor said, because diabetes, hypertension and cholesterol often travel together. Later, when my cholesterol numbers stabilised, the pills were stopped. But by then, aspirin had entered the picture “to thin the blood,” they told me. That little tablet would come back to haunt me years later when I was hospitalised for two weeks with diverticular bleeding. The blood had thinned a bit too much, and once the vessels broke, there was no stopping it. It was a frightening time, but I recovered, and life went on.

My eyesight began to falter about a decade ago. Glaucoma, the doctor said. Since then, I’ve been on long-term eye drops to slow it down. Lately, though, my vision seem a little mistier as if a thin film has settled across both eyes. The legs have also started to complain. Cramps in the calves and feet, but some good massage therapy has helped ease them. My left knee, however, is another story. The natural lubricant is drying up, and the doctor’s been recommending injections to keep it going. Then there’s the drier skin and eczema. It’s a constant irritation, but what really worries me is the thought of it turning into psoriasis, which my father suffered from. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened.

And finally, the latest in this long list: an enlarged prostate and elevated PSA levels. That discovery on my birthday last year was an anxious one. The tests and scans made me fear the worst, but with treatment and time, the numbers have come down. Still, it’s a reminder that age doesn’t come quietly; it makes its presence felt in all sorts of ways.

So here I am, a man full of prescribed drugs and quiet gratitude. Whether my ailments are typical of a 71-year-old, I can’t say for sure. But I do know that I’ve been lucky that every scare so far has found its resolution, lucky that I can still walk, still see, still write these thoughts down. As I step into my 72nd year, I carry all these stories in my body, each a little scar of survival. May there be more good days than bad ones ahead, and may I have the grace to take them all in stride.

Important hygiene factors

Together with friends from the Nandaka Vihara, we shall be embarking on a Buddhist Trail to Nepal and India later this month, and I thought it might be useful to share a few general tips on hygiene expectations—especially for the India sector, which, if we believe the horror stories from past travellers, could be quite an experience.

Our route this November and December will take us through familiar names from the Buddha’s life: beginning at Lumbini, his birthplace, and crossing the Nepal-India border to Shravasti. We shall travel on to Vaishali and Kushinagar, sites of his final teachings and Mahaparinirvana; to Rajgir and Nalanda, those ancient centres of learning; then to Bodhgaya, where enlightenment came under the Bodhi Tree; and finally to Varanasi and Sarnath, where he preached his first sermon. Ideally, we should visit these sacred places in the order of the Buddha’s life, but travel logistics seldom allow such perfection. There will also be stops in Agra, Jaipur and Delhi, each with its own rhythm and pace. Some towns are bustling, others half-asleep, and it’s in this mix of the urban and the rural that we shall learn to adapt.

The Buddhist Trail in northern India is more than just a string of holy sites. It’s a slow, sometimes dusty, always fascinating journey through places where history and belief still live side by side. Hygiene standards, though, can vary widely from one stop to another, and a bit of common sense goes a long way towards keeping us healthy and comfortable throughout the trip.

Good hygiene starts with simple habits. We’ll keep a small bottle of hand sanitiser handy and wash before meals or after using public toilets, especially at roadside stops. We’ll drink only bottled or filtered water (even for brushing our teeth) and remember that ice can be risky. We’ll eat freshly cooked food whenever possible and save the raw salads and street snacks for when we’re feeling both adventurous and confident about the stall’s cleanliness, which I don't think is possible under any circumstances. Above all, no fish dishes if they’re caught from the Ganges or other rivers where the dead are cremated and their ashes scattered in the waters! Public toilets can range from acceptable to best-forgotten, so it’s wise to carry a bit of tissue paper, wet wipes and hand sanitiser.

Most hotels along the route provide decent bathing facilities. The water in urban areas such as Varanasi and Bodhgaya is treated and generally safe for showering. We just take care not to swallow it. In smaller towns, the supply might come from wells or storage tanks; fine for bathing, but not for drinking or brushing teeth. A quick-dry towel, a bar of travel soap and a pair of shower sandals will make life easier. As mornings can be chilly, a warm layer and a good cup of tea become small blessings.

It’s also sensible to carry a few medical basics. Vaccinations against Hepatitis A, Typhoid and Influenza are worth updating before we go. We should bring along a simple first-aid kit of antiseptic wipes, plasters anti-diarrhoeal tablets and oral rehydration salts are usually all we’ll need. Travel insurance that covers medical emergencies provides peace of mind, even if we never have to use it.

Cleanliness, of course, isn’t just about staying free of germs. The Buddha himself spoke of personal hygiene as part of spiritual discipline: an act of mindfulness and respect for the body that sustains our practice. To wash, shave or brush our teeth regularly was to honour both the teaching and the self. Seen this way, the daily routines of travel - bathing, keeping our clothes tidy, washing our hands - become small meditations in themselves.

The weather during November and December is one of the blessings of the journey: cool, dry, and pleasant. The only nuisance is the dust that hangs over some parts of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, so those with sensitive lungs might find a face mask useful.

In short, we should travel light, travel clean and travel with patience. The Buddhist Trail may test our comfort levels at times but will reward us with moments of deep peace and wonder. The rest is simply part of the journey.