Wild goose chase in Kuala Lumpur

My younger brother and I were kiddies between the ages of 5 and 9 when we spent a few years in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur in Malaya, as it then was. The reason being that my father, who worked in a private commercial bank (later nationalised), was posted in that part of the world for several years during the 50s. If I am still here to tell the tale, then you would have divined dear reader, with that sharp acuity that so characterises you, that I am well stricken in years. Not quite senile and doddering, but decidedly long in the tooth. As a family, we do have in our vaults, some faded black and white photographs taken during that period, to remind us of one of Britain’s many outposts that we called home for the greater part of a decade.

Prior to Kuala Lumpur and Singapore my dad was also stationed briefly in Rangoon where my older brother and I were with the pater and mater. I was too young to remember anything of Burma and my younger brother was still kicking and making a nuisance of himself in my mother’s womb. The photographs were not of the highest quality, and I am not just referring to the inevitable fading and spotting involved with bromide prints of that vintage, but also in terms of composition and character. ‘There, that’s me sucking my thumb on the far, left corner and that’s my brother sticking his tongue out as the cameraman asked us to watch the birdie.’ Not exactly from the Cartier-Bresson school of photography, but useful to spend an idle hour going through them. Particularly when you plan to revisit your past.

During these periodic reminiscences of mine, I have had occasion to go back and do a flashback on cities like Calcutta and London, and pen my thoughts as to how certain gradual changes have taken place in these cities. Always remembering that I am now based in Bangalore, a city I went back to, to put down roots, having spent my post-Far East childhood there. Nostalgia keeps claiming me for its own no matter how hard I try to stay rooted in the present. When you try to rediscover a city like Kuala Lumpur, having last lived there over six decades ago, expecting to instantly recognise familiar landmarks in a trice, is unrealistic. As I was to learn on this visit a couple of weeks ago.

To be perfectly honest, I had no real plan or desire to visit KL. ‘Let the dead past bury its dead,’ is my motto, as Longfellow put it so eloquently. Rediscovering something that happened within ten to thirty years ago is doable. The memory bank over that kind of time frame holds you in good stead, and the changes wrought in the city of your choice are never that drastic that you ‘have about as much chance as a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wild cat’s left ear with a red-hot needle.’ Now I put that in quotes because I have lifted it from one of Wodehouse’s gems. I have my principles. I do not go around pinching other people’s quotes, trying to pass them off as my own. Not cricket. To get back to the subject, my feelings on arriving at the capital city of Malaysia, where I had spent four years eons ago, was not dissimilar to Wodehouse’s one-armed blind man.

Nevertheless, I landed in KL to be met by my younger sibling, who had arrived earlier from Chennai with his better half, and her close relative settled in Malaysia. We were to spend about a week in the capital city, keen to visit every possible landmark that our fading memory and sepia-tinted old photographs would permit us to do. Our friends and relatives had thoughtfully drawn up a programme in advance to make our voyage of rediscovery as smooth as possible. However, there was a catch. The streets where we had lived all those years ago, the few landmarks to identify them by, had all vanished without a trace. More of that in a bit. One or two well- known tourist spots are still there in full splendour. Take Batu Caves for instance.

Batu Caves, the house of Lord Murugan, son of Shiva and his consort, Parvathi and brother of elephant-God Ganesha, was the scene of thousands of visitors. There was a temple at the base of a steep hill, and another darshan could be had if you had ventured to climb several hundred steps leading to the caves, to pay obeisance. Discretion won over valour and we decided to admire from afar and gaze in wonder at the gigantic, grand gold-painted statue of the presiding deity that towered over the entire area. Monkeys frolicked around, full of mischief, reminding one of the many temples in India. We also visited one or two Chinese places of worship and frankly, one looked just like the other. Chinatown was a must, selling all manner of cheap knacks and gewgaws, and most of the stalls were manned by Bangladeshis! Their Chinese masters just sat back, scratching themselves, enjoying their smoke and endless cups of tea, while raking in the ringgits.

My brother had an address we had apparently lived in, on the arterial Klang Road. We only had his word for it, though we did have a couple of photos of our bungalow with the entire family posing in front of it. Our friends showed great patience driving us around the vicinity of what might have been the location of our residence. What we came across instead were multi-storeyed buildings galore, a couple of shopping malls and a few tennis courts. I gave it as my considered opinion that those tennis courts might well have once been our picturesque bungalow! And if you don’t believe me, I can show you the pictures of those tennis courts. If that fails to convince you, you can view the photos of our bungalows. I have all bases covered.

Lest I forget, there was old La Salle School, which my brother and I attended for a couple of years, probably 2^nd and 4^th standard respectively. Our hosts reassured us that the school does indeed exist and is flourishing. Off we went, hunting for the school we barely remembered, aided only by a class group photo of mine which displayed the school banner at the back, but little else to mark it out by. On arriving, the guard at the gate firmly refused to let us in. I could not recall the school song, if there was one, else I would have sung it for him. I showed him the photo, he remained unimpressed, told me visitors not allowed. So, I stood outside the gate and clicked a few snaps. Frankly, for all I recalled, it could have been any school, but at least, I have something to show folks back home, how I first learnt a smattering of bad words in Malay and Chinese.

On some of our longer drives to Malacca and Genting (a pleasant resort with a casino attached), we hired a charming young Chinese couple to drive us around and act as tour guides. They were called Chini and China, I kid you not. Indeed, they were like a couple of cute Chinese pandas and I am guessing the latter was the man and Chini his wife. China (pronounced Cheena) could only drive and his English was non-existent, necessitating his young wife to be the official interpreter. Well, full marks to Chini for trying, but she might as well have been speaking to us in Mandarin or Cantonese or whatever. I tried a few bad Chinese words I had learnt in La Salle School on them, and they giggled. They both giggled a great deal which kept them and us in good spirits, and they got their Rs and Ls reversed (turn light, then reft and stlaight), an Oriental speech impediment we were familiar with and could decode. Happy campers. Incidentally, the Malaysians add a ‘la’ after every sentence. It is a kind of informal term of endearment. ‘KL is really hot, la. All twelve months, la. No winter, only rain. Even then very hot, la.’ Welcome to la-la land. By the way, try as we might, we could not find a souvenir shop in Malacca selling their storied Malacca cane of legend and song. Maybe we did not look hard enough. Too hot, la.

As you would have rightly concluded, my friends, our journey to Kuala Lumpur to delve into our past turned out to be somewhat of a non-starter. That said, our hosts and friends who remembered my parents with much fondness, were most hospitable, made us feel at home, took us round various parts of the city, and kept us well fed. We posed in front of that glitzy, architectural marvel, the imposing Petronas Towers, where superstar Rajanikanth and his ilk have often shot many of their action sequences, we posed in front of the even more imposing edifice of Lord Murugan (aka Subramanyan) in Batu Caves, a sprawling golf club here, a pan-Asian restaurant there, the ubiquitous Saravanabhavan hotels everywhere – all good. As to spotting anything even remotely resembling 88 Klang Road, our hearth and home circa 1955 – 58, we were chasing a mirage. A nice mirage, though. At least, we have the photographs to invest the mirage with some life.

So, if you are visiting Malaysia any time soon, never mind which part of the year, it will be hot. Too hot, la! But the people are velly, velly fliendry.