The long double-storey market, with its eye-catching Minang-style roof, opened for business on 12 July after the old market and the old flats near it were cleared for redevelopment of the area some three years ago. I headed for the new market in the late afternoon of that day with great excitement to take in some reminiscences of my childhood days in this area.
Throngs of people were already in the market to relish in its space and ambience. After making a quick tour of both floors, I came out of it and roved the area, gazing at the various landmarks with intent endearment.
Next to the market, a conglomeration of ultra-modern apartment blocks aptly called “Sri Geylang Serai” (“Charms of Geylang Serai”) is being built. Soon, this whole area would attract people from all parts of Singapore who would stroll, eat and shop just like it had been since the good old days.
Like always, whenever I passed this area, I had felt nostalgic about it. Lately, I had been cherishing it even more because I would not be around on earth to witness its next change. I had seen three scenarios so far: the friendly old kampung (Malay village) setting, the modern multi-storey apartment-blocks setting and now the futuristic owe-inspiring setting.
This area had always brought back fond memories of the past to me.
When my father, a caretaker of a religious building in Chinatown, died, my uneducated mother, who had nobody else in the world except my younger sister and me, had to leave the place. After a brief stay somewhere, we somehow came to live in Geylang Serai just behind this area, not far away from a kampung mosque called Surau Aminah, now the location of a row of HDB flats along Sims Avenue.
My mother rented one of the rooms in a kind of attap-roofed “longhouse” which had been partitioned into four rooms, each rented out for $14 a month. The house, self-constructed by its owner, had no fresh water taps. There was a well though nearby, enclosed within an open-air cubicle with its walls erected with old planks that had a million insect-bitten tiny holes, which nowadays would have been sold for millions of dollars as ancient art pieces.
Yes, the well was fully utilised by the tenants for bathing, and especially whenever they used the jamban, a tall, metre-square, bucket-drawn toilet next to it. Some bright spark had even written neatly in capital letters the word “Bank” on its door with red paint, and so everyone around there referred to it by this nickname. The “Bank” had a zinc sheet roof, not really for security purposes but to protect its occupant from rain when it came. The wooden walls of the jamban didn’t look weather-beaten, probably because it was well protected from the mid-day heat of the sun as it happened to be located right under a big, canopied jambu batu (guava) tree.
One jambu season, a Tarzan-influenced friend of mine, was up on the tree, plucking those seed-filled fruit and throwing them down for me to collect. Suddenly he became motionless. He was frightfully staring down towards the roofless enclosure of the well. Only a diabolical shriek from a woman inside it, ejected my friend from the tree. The piercing shriek sounded so eerie that it reminded me of someone spotting a pontianak (vampire) maid squatting on the roof of this very jamban at maghrib (just after sunset) enticing young men with “her” smile and grace. The thought raised my neck hair.
Looking so frightened and in a hurry to get down from his perch, my friend jumped on to the roof of the jamban. The loud bang that issued forth from the impact was instantly followed by another horrible yell, this time from a male voice from inside the “Bank”. Wondering if the pontianak was indeed around even in day-time, I didn’t wait to see my friend’s escape. As I was equally terrified by the two demonic yells, I disappeared from there like Houdini.
Unlike women who liked to bathe in that well in the day, I loved to bathe in the open, at the government standpipe a little distance away, at night. First, with two pails I would fetch fresh water for my home.
After a few trips, the water-drum in my tiny kitchen area would be filled. Before making my last trip, I would bathe there, enjoying the cold water, and, at the same time, watching a Chinese girl a little older than I from one of the Chinese sundry shops nearby. She would appear at about the same time to fetch water but using two kerosene tins held with ropes to a bamboo stick over her shoulder. I admired her both for her comeliness and strength.