The iridescence of the brocade fabrics from which the chubas are sewn reflect the rainbow in our soul. Weaves of flowers, eternity knots, and geometrical patterns conjure up aspirations of peace, healing and balance.
The “chuba” or “chupa” is a Tibetan word for an ankle length robe worn by Tibetans. Slight variations of it are worn by members of the Sherpa community and a number of cultural and language groups across the Himalayan regions.
Even though I had passed by many chuba shops during my visits to Nepal, I took my time about buying one. I didn’t want to treat someone’s actual clothing like a costume or a quaint souvenir.
A Tibetan grandma in her chuba feeds the dogs at the Stupa even as she does her daily circumambulations (kora).
Apart from its wearability for celebratory occasions in Singapore, I wanted a chuba as a visual reminder of my encounters in Nepal. From the Nepali friends of the Newari, Tamang, Rai, Gorkha and various culture/ language groups, I’ve learnt what it means to be generous and resourceful at ALL times.
So after thinking about it for about 8 years, I finally bought my first chuba from one of the shops at Boudha in December 2019.
The lovely young lady at the chuba shop speaks fluent Nepali, Tibetan, Hindi, Assamese and a smattering of English. In Nepal, many young people study and work at the same time. She was just delighted to show us how the chubas for men and women should be worn, without expecting us to buy more stuff or even tip her. There is much power in her gaiety & service! đ
Little did I know that a month after that purchase, Covid-19 would affect all human interactions & put a stop to trips abroad. In Singapore the Circuit Breaker measures kept people housebound, affected jobs, schools and gatherings of all sorts.
It looked like my chuba from Boudha wouldn’t be required for a while I figured. But I was wrong.
This May I received my first ZOOM birthday celebration invitation. The birthday celebrant is an avid traveller & photographer. Travel restrictions had affected her birthday plans.
Celebrating our friendâs birthday via ZOOM with her parents, dogs and even her Korean film idol in life sized paper cut out. The human mind has no boundaries!
So that night holed up in my little flat with my cats, I put on the chuba as it was purposed for.
And the birthday lady, being the good sport that she is, turned up on ZOOM in lapis lazuli blue and a strand of turquoise around her neck.
As the fireworks went off in her living room, while her parents looked on in amusement, her dogs in puzzlement, and ZOOM guests cheered, I felt that although we were physically “grounded,” our spirit was free.
The chuba from Boudha has also become a pleasant reminder that the darker the times are, the more brightly we can try to shine, and the less we have, the more deeply we may experience abundance.
That year we decided to give drama production a rest and stage a concert instead. Called “An Evening with Kindred Spirits,” the concert was a platform for boys and alumni members to express their talents in the arts.
There would be no Guest of Honour, no VIPs, no prizes for the best performances etc. Concert tickets would be sold at a token price so that everyone could be in the presence of good sounds and good words.
Among those who came for rehearsals was a secondary one Chicken Little of a boy. He was playing JS Bach’s Prelude in C Major on the school chapel piano during one lunch break when I “talented scouted” him.
Why him? Surely there were other more accomplished student pianists in the school.
That afternoon as I sat on the last pew watching him so dead serious playing Bach’s piece, I knew there & then in the “Sanctuary of the Holy Presence,” of SJI that I had found the opening act of “Kindred Spirits.” Piano Boy had to be in the concert, regardless of his musical competence.
J.S. Bach
A concert needs a host or a master of ceremony. A tall, and articulate secondary 4 student from one of the top classes auditioned for the role and became the Concert Host.
Piano Boy and Concert Host were not from the classes I taught. So our interactions happened mainly at rehearsals after school.
When I was “reminded” that Concert Host came from a prominent family, I took the chance to remind him that his driver or security officer would have to follow our rehearsal schedule and not the other way round. He agreed without hesitation.
As the concert date drew closer, the auditorium was charged with creative energies of budding deejays, singer song writers, pianists, flutist, drummers, poets, actors & production crew from different streams and old boys’ network.
Source: Forest of Piano. Netflix.com
With each rehearsal, Concert Host soaked up the limelight and flourished. Being the progeny of a public figure and having to be constantly on his best behaviour lest it brought disrepute to his father, Concert Host had finally found a legitimate outlet for his wit & candour.
Meanwhile the reverse was happening in Piano Boy.
His carefree days of playing the slightly out of tune piano in the quiet corner of the cosy chapel had now morphed into a waking nightmare of practices on the baby grand piano under the blinding stage lights of the school’s Performing Arts Centre.
Even though Bach’s prelude in C Major was less than 2 minute long, it might as well have been 2 hours for Piano Boy.
He started making more & more mistakes on the piano. He started looking grey and withdrawn. It was as if the black gleaming piano was sucking the life force out of him each time he sat next to it.
One specially challenging day, Concert Host and I stood by the stage curtain and watched Piano Boy struggle with Bach.
“Ms Ong I’ve heard better piano performances of Bach than this,” Concert Host shook his head in disappointment and disbelief.
The 16-year-old shining Master of Ceremony was getting impatient with the not so promising 13-year-old pianist.
I felt a tinge of hurt on Piano Boy’s behalf, but Concert Host was not wrong either.
“Of course you would have heard better than this,” I concurred with Concert Host.
“But don’t forget, not many boys come from background like yours where you have the best resources and exposures. Don’t you think given Piano Boy’s age and simple upbringing, it’s quite remarkable that he’s been faithfully coming for rehearsals with the big boys, and trying to play on a baby grand?” I added.
My words could have some impact on Concert Host as I could sense his body tensing even in the backstage shadows. Maybe I had offended him.
In the rehearsals that followed, I noticed Concert Host watching Piano Boy, and intervening at certain points to show him how he could play Bach’s prelude better. He no longer saw Piano Boy as the stumbling spoiler that messed up the flow of “his” show, but a younger and braver friend needing some encouragement.
One day he taught Piano Boy to remove his shoes so that he could connect with the pedals below better.
“If you could feel the pedals, you would feel more confident when you play. Your shoes are getting in the way,” Concert Host explained to Piano Boy in an almost fatherly tone. I felt this special moment was for my eyes only.
And so it was with each shoeless rehearsal that Piano Boy regained his footing and his smiles returned.
On the opening night, Piano Boy’s mom met me for the first time. The beaming mother introduced her family as people living in HDB (public housing). Then she thanked me in a mixture of English and Mandarin for the practice and exposure her son had gained in the past few months. She didn’t expect her shy boy to have such discipline & boldness.
The concert turned out well for everyone. The more flamboyant performers got the accolades they were looking for, while the more reticent ones were proud of overcoming shyness and stage fright.
And I will always remember the murmurs of surprise, followed by a velvety hush of appreciation that filled the auditorium of over 500 when Piano Boy gave his all to the 2 minute piano performance.
When the show ended, Concert Host came to check if I needed help with clearing rubbish in the dressing room.
He then went on to pick up things from the floor and took the trash bags out.
I was a little stunned when he literally snatched the trash bin from my hand even as he was still holding his blazer in the other.
“You better go now,” I urged him. “I can settle this easily. Your driver must be wondering.” He had stayed longer than he normally would and I didn’t want his driver to worry.
“Don’t worry about the driver, Miss Ong. I’ve told him to wait cos I’m helping my teacher,” the young man assured me as his eyes sparkled kindly.
Concert Host was born privileged. But his parents didn’t turn up for the concert like Piano Boy’s did. Also he never quite knew when people treated him well was it because they really liked him, or was it because of his father? And credit to him, he didn’t look away when his blinkers were pointed out.
Calling out people for being privileged, and showing sympathy for the underdog is not difficult. But consciously checking our attitude regardless of who we’re dealing with requires more effort. And two boys from two very different backgrounds have shown me how.
Whether itâs on the tiered silver platter of a high class tea place or in oily plastic wrapper tucked among other snacks in a a roadside coffee shop, the marble cake is irresistible to me.
My dadâs adoptive sister was newly married when she learnt to bake her first marble cake at her in-lawsâ.
When she brought the cake to my grandmaâs home she was dressed in a batik sarong kebaya with orange flowers.
Movie legend & song writer, P. Ramlee.
We may not be peranakans, but P.Ramleeâs movies must have had a big impact on my auntâs sartorial elegance in the 60s.
My auntâs sarong kebaya and hairstyle closely resembled the ladyâs in this illustration.
She was gorgeous in her orange kebaya and dark bouffant hair as she served us her first baking achievement.
Being raised predominantly on a chinese diet, our family, especially my grandma and mom, found the buttery cake a little too rich for their stomach.
But it was heaven to me!
My aunt was so pleased with my response that henceforth she would bring a marble cake each time she visited.
For many years, during Chinese New Year and festive occasions, this cake with its trademark dramatic swirls was solely reserved just for her greatest fan, ME.
My aunt seldom bakes these days. The last time we met, she was recovering from a mild stroke. I mentioned âmarble cake,â and a beautiful smile appeared on her face.
Nowadays with the emphasis on âhealthyâ options, few marble cakes that Iâve tasted come close to my auntâs standard. But still I eat them, and think of the lovely young bride who introduced me to my first marble cake more than half a century ago. âĽď¸đ
In our village home at Covent Garden along one of the Singapore canals, there was a fallen tree trunk by the doorway. Depending on who was using it, it was sometimes a bench and sometimes a table.
The tree trunk of nearly black wood was often my grandmaâs work bench.
On it my grandma could often be seen crafting her much sought after anklets and necklaces made from embroidery threads of 5 colours.
These âFive Coloured Threads,â or ângoh sek sua,â as they are called in our minnan dialect, were meant for babies and toddlers, especially those who cried for no apparent reason at night.
Judging by the visits of parents to our home, grandmaâs handiworks must have some positive outcomes.
My grandma had suffered unexplained losses in her life. Yet she could provide this support to her community willingly & cheerfully, as she rolled the 5 threads representing the 5 elements into one wearable work of Peace to soothe a restless baby and to calm an anxious parent.
Years later when I wear rudraskha beads on my wrist and pass them over the head or back of animals as I pat them, my grandmaâs hands were on me.
And who have known that my grandmaâs simple blending of the elements to make peace would prepare me for my affinity with prayers flags 40 plus years later in Nepal?
In mid April 2020, in the midst of lockdowns and stockpiling frenzy, a friendâs beloved dog passed away in the Middle East.
In her grief, my friend found lighting tealights, butter lamps and candles deeply comforting. She was also a little concerned that her supply was running low. Travel restrictions and curfews also made it hard for her to make purchases.
On 23 April I mailed her a box of butter lamps. My intention was for them to lift her spirit from the darkness of loss and to light a path for her departed Nepalese dog child.
It took a long time for the parcel of light to reach her. It had to first leave Singapore to go to the USA, and from there, it then made its way to the Middle East.
Two days ago, more than a month later, the butter lamps finally arrived at my friendâs home in the desert.
When she opened the parcel, it was also Day 49 of her dogâs passing.
Today on full moon eve and on the Tibetan holy day of Saka Dawa, my friend in the Middle East raises one butter lamp from Singapore for her Nepalese dog son. She puts it in a holder that has followed them from his country of birth.
I like to think that the butter lamps that I sent out on account of a humble dog must have blessed many postal workers and handlers as they passed oceans and deserts in time for his 49th day observation.
And I couldnât have asked for a more auspicious timing for my friendâs gloom to be lifted as she celebrates her beloved companionâs entry into the full moon and into Saka Dawa.
May we continue to be Bearers of Light for one another, regardless of what forms we take and what kind of crossings we make.
I found a tear in one of the pajamas bottoms and decided to sew it shut with a bit of thread instead of discarding it.
My grandpa in dark pants with a friend at the temple he cared for all his life. Behind them are the painted door guardians of the temple.
And in that instance of stitching up the hole, I felt the knobby hands of my grandparents from across the years.
Vivid memories of my grandpaâs stitches on the edges of his pockets and sides of cloth carriers appeared in my mind.
My grandpa was always mending and repairing things. He was always short on money, but never short tempered. He had this gift of approaching chores with an almost meditative attitude which made me want to potter around him more.
Whether it was sweeping the temple compound, arranging grand offerings for the gods or preparing leftovers to feed stray cats, my grandpa did them all carefully & methodically. No work was above or beneath him.
Those wordless afternoons with him would later shape my learning with male teachers and male mentors when I entered school.
The temple door guardian was witness to many of my wordless afternoons with my grandpa. He is now my gateway to my grandpa and my childhood.
After the cremation on 27 May, China Black’s ashes were held in a little box on the shelf he used to sit on during his youth.
And for the past few nights, I would check in and find his cat brothers, Hakim & Emmanuel hanging quietly in China Black’s favorite corner, below his ashes.
Last night was the 6th day of his passing going on 7th. There’s a belief in my culture that on the 7th day of passing, the deceased would come home to make one final visit to check on his family before moving on.
So I lit a butter lamp to light China Black’s path. Then I decided to place a dish of his favourite food next to his ashes to assure him that he’s healed and all’s well in his home, and most of all, he’s free to move on.
I could leave the butter lamp burning and the tuna dish overnight on China Black’s shelf without worry of fire hazard because Hakim and Emmanuel are too portly and too old to climb on the shelf to topple anything.
China Blackâs usual way of eating to show that he has more than enough.
This morning the butter lamp had finished burning. Every item on the shelf was in place except for the tuna meant for China Black. It was half finished like the way he usually ate when he was here. He was a small eater, easily distracted and seldom finished his food.
I am grateful that China Black could eat which means he is now healed. His visit on Day7 of his passing has helped me to clear all doubts of animals having souls.
My practice of honouring the souls of animals whether they are alive or dead shall continue, and this time with renewed conviction.
A souvenir that was bought with me in mind 3 years ago surfaced in the giverâs storeroom 2 days before the passing of China Black. It arrived yesterday. âĽď¸
With the nation wide restrictions on human movements and activities, I wasnât sure if flowers would still be available at the supermarket near my home.
Medical safety aside, getting dressed and donning a mask to make that walk in our humid weather did threaten my flower offering practice.
But I finally made the flower trip while being fully aware that it might turn out to be a âwastedâ one.
Outside the supermarket, the styrofoam box that was used to contain the jasmines was empty except for the crushed ice that was meant to keep the flowers fresh.
The bouquets on sale were too large for the vases at home and it looked like I was going home âempty handed.â
Oh well…at least I got to buy new sponges for the sink and some bread, dried fruits and nuts, I thought to myself as I reluctantly accepted the reality of my unproductive trip.
As I made my way home, I turned to take one last look at the bouquets, hoping I could perhaps find a smaller one.
It was then I spotted a burly man showing great interest in the empty styrofoam box, much like what I did earlier on.
Burly Man wore dark clothes and had industrial shoes on. He looked like one of those container truck drivers, not someone you would associate with flowers, especially jasmines.
He gesticulated at the cashier with great familiarity to ask where the jasmines were. The latter made a quick dash to someone inside the supermarket.
Before long, a young male staff appeared, cradling a large bag of packed with little packets of jasmines & showed them to Burly Man. Both men smiled widely at the treasured florals & exchanged pleasantries.
By then, Burly Man knew I was also looking to buy jasmines and garlands, if they were available.
As the packets of jasmines rained down into the styrofoam box, Burly Man helped me sort out the garlands which were in limited supply from the unstrung ones, while picking a few packets for himself.
I paid for the garlands for Ganesha, for Avaloki and for St Francis, and thanked Burly Man for getting the jasmines out of cold storage for me.
Burly Man will never know he had played such an important role in a stranger lifeâs yesterday.
His timely appearance assured me that making âinconvenient journeysâ without the certainty of their outcomes, except that they be a gesture of commitment, must be done even when things donât pan out the way I hope or want.
One afternoon, before 2012, I was sitting by the window of my old flat just looking at the rain trees outside and the badminton court below. It was the June break so I had lots of time to be still.
Then I spotted a man with a backpack making his way to the cast iron bench at the periphery of the badminton court.
He had a dark complexion and was dressed like one of those hundreds of young foreign workers I saw at Mustaffa Centre.
It was a work day so it was unusual to see a worker sitting by himself.
My flat was on the 7th floor. By the time I really noticed the man, he had already sat down. And so I could see only the top of his head,his shoulder and his backpack.
Perhaps something about the way he sat told me he was troubled. And suddenly almost without realising it, I found myself addressing the top of his head with, âWhatever is bothering you, may you be well.â
I wasnât feeling particularly kind when I made that prayer, if it could be considered a prayer at all. In fact it came out of my mouth almost mechanically.
And as if he had heard me, the man got up.
It was then I saw that one of his hands was newly bandaged.
He must have gotten injured and was taking a rest on the bench after returning from the clinic.
And as for me, Iâm glad that I had been spared the shame of making unfair remarks of a man looking âso free,â when the opposite was more like it.
That episode always pops up in my mind during social gatherings when harmless chats can often spiral downwards into trading unkind remarks on others whose lives we know nothing of, in our attempts to sound âinteresting.â
And over the years I have avoided meet ups that I feel can make me judgemental or worse still, condone irresponsible speech in my efforts to fit in.
And for the past few nights, I would check in and find his cat brothers, Hakim & Emmanuel hanging quietly in China Black’s favorite corner, below his ashes.
One afternoon, before 2012, I was sitting by the window of my old flat just looking at the rain trees outside and the badminton court below. It was the June break so I had lots of time to be still.
Lisa Ong 