Something Lost

It was raining at the Tanjong Pagar KTM Railway Station on its last day of operation. I was lucky that morning for shortly after I arrived, a train pulled into the station. As I had been taking pictures at the platform, I was able to take a good shot of the approaching train from the barricade. Only when I turned to look behind did I realize that a crowd had piled upon me with camera held arms stretching high in the air.

The rain had given a grey tinge to the train platforms which enhanced the nostalgia in our hearts. I took a picture of the metal collapsible gate with the arrival sign. I could feel the angst and anxiety of the 15 year old me walking through those gates to join a secondary school in Singapore after years of Malaysian education. From then on until I graduated from University I would pass those gates yearly on my annual pilgrimage home. They were easily 10 hours of watching the plantations, jungle, kampong houses went by to the rhythm of the chugging wheels against the track and the occasional hoot of the horn. Without the help of ipods, handphones or even walkman, reading was the only other pass time. I remembered on one trip I had to hide my tears the whole journey whilst reading “Elephant Man” amidst the stares of other passengers. The stops at small towns provided brief breaks. Watching the passengers alight slowly I tried to imagine their background, the homes they lived in, the families they came from and wondered whether they led happier lives than me (long train journeys often induced moods of excessive reflections).

That same spot was still there that morning just like 40 years ago, at the Departure Platform with its long low metal table for the custom officers to check departing passengers’ bags for taxable items. My mother made regular trips from KL. I could almost see my mother unzipping her luggage bag filled with new fabric, zips and sewing accessories for my father’s tailor shop. The edges of a ten dollar note though lodged in between the folded fabric was visible. It would soon disappear after a few ruffles by the custom officers. Those were tense moments for me as I followed her through those custom checks with her poker face. I think of it now it was more to save the harrassment of having the luggage turned upside down, the custom people needed extras to buy their "kopi" (coffee).

I could have gone on and on reliving those memories but one can not always live in past. Soon I left the station and headed to People’s Park to eat “Xiao Long Bao” from a stall run by Chinese Nationals. The rain had stopped. I had intended to do some shopping but the crowd deterred me. I suppose my mind was still filled with scenes of small town Malaysia. They together with busy People’s Park are part of me but that night after the last train pulled out of Tanjong Pagar Railway Station, I felt as if something in me was lost forever.