The Notebook

I believe in carrying a notebook, no matter how small it is. Growing up, it used to be filled with new words that I came across while reading a book or those I found in advertisements or signboards. Now, apart from the usual ‘Things to do/buy’ lists, I pen down my thoughts, intros lost in confusion and titles of books that will never see the light of day. But a notebook I do carry.

It was a terribly cold day yesterday, one that promised snow, but the snow never came. I was somewhere in Trafalgar Square and desperately needed to get to somewhere warm. And Waterstones by the corner of The Strand and Northumberland Avenue, offered a brief respite. I walked out a few pounds (sterling) lighter and my handbag a lot heavier with three books – one, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. This one book compounded my belief in the importance of the notebook.

Notebooks, no matter brief the scribbles, no matter trivial the contents or illegible the writings, offer glimpses of moments in your life, never to be thrown away or discarded for it will leave you forever. Reading it back will provoke a frown, solicit a chuckle but most likely it will open a floodgate of memories.

Over the years, I have been privileged to share glimpses of jottings in notebooks by people who never thought that one day his or her notebook would be a point of reference.

The late Datin Peggy Taylor with her chest full of history

When Datin Peggy Taylor left, she left a suitcase of history, among them notebooks in various sizes and colours, with anecdotes of her life in Malaya, her friendships with famous names, and jottings of historic moments that we can’t find in history books today. It was in the midst of helping her to type out these jottings from her notebooks that Peggy left us last March and now her voice from the past is coming back to me. It wasn’t easy transcribing Peggy’s writing; but it transported me to her past in India, the voyage on the ship to Malaya, the fun theme parties in her house and the way Tunku did the ronggeng. Afterthoughts were written in slants by the side of the page and towards her last few months, she took to leaving blank pages opposite her jottings, to fill in what she had forgotten. At times, she’d phone me up in the mornings to add in what suddenly came to her during her restless nights.

Almost two years ago, the weather just as bad, I said goodbye to another friend. I had known of his heart condition for some time since I acquired his friendship. When he went, no one knew about the notebook that he left behind. He told me about it because he wanted me to read and see if his jottings would help someone else in his condition. I told his sister about this notebook and she found it among his things that she packed to take home. It was jottings about how he felt during those early days when he was undergoing a heart transplant; his fears and apprehensions, his sorrows all neatly written down while he was in and out of hospital.

During this week alone, I had a chance to glimpse into two people’s pasts – again all written down in notebooks.

Glimpses into our past

During these few months, I have occupied myself with one story, which has now made headlines in the media. It all started with a brother of a plane crash victim who wanted to know more about the incident that happened 58 years ago. It was his initiative that led to the discovery of the plane which crashed in the jungles of Malaya on 25^th August 1950. It was during our second meeting with the brother that I discovered, among the things that were sent back in a box to the parents, was a notebook. It was a blank notebook but it is now being filled in with the journey of the discovery of the plane, by his surviving brother. That will make one fine reading one day.

Yesterday, I saw one notebook with Malay pantuns, penned during the writer’s time as Prisoner of War in Changi. Admittedly, the pantuns and other verses were scribbled in pieces of papers but they were neatly transferred into this notebook, which has been kept since the end of the second world war. It must have been the pantuns and other verses that kept the writer sane during what must have been a torturous and horrendous time in prison. It never ceased to amaze me the almost flawless old Malay that the young MCS officer wrote in his notebook. I had a difficult time trying to explain one naughty verse about heaving bosoms, to his son.

That notebook from a prisoner of war brought me back to the story that I heard at a conference some years back from a scholar who showed me scribblings and jottings from one of the few Malay POW who worked on the Death Railway in Burma. Apparently, the writer scribbled on pieces of papers and hid them in pots and in the ground whenever a Japanese soldier marched by. These jottings were then transferred into notebooks once he made his escape. It was quite a riveting read.

I will continue to carry my notebook around. If anything, it will tell people how much lambchops I bought from our local butcher and what Kissinger and Tabby were up to during the day.

Kak Teh's other notetakings:
History in a suitcase
Goodbye
A painting incomplete
Goodbye, My dear Peggy
A weekend of sorts
Dear Diary

Goodbye my dear Peggy

I have lost a very dear friend, Datin Peggy Taylor. During the precious few months of our friendship, she had taught me a lot. She was 83. Like a history teacher, she narrated events leading up to Merdeka and beyond; the chitchats with the late Tunku, the contents of letters and communications with prominent politicians from both sides of the political arena, the social scene of the sixties and the seventies and many, many more that are now safely recorded in my tapes and notebooks.

And as I sat there by her feet, with the fire crackling in the background, I couldn't help but felt a sense of awe and admiration for this feisty lady who had witnessed the independence of three countries, hobnobbed with prominent leaders and celebrities and even made a mark in our country's political scene. Peggy, who was at the Padang to witness the raising of the Malayan flag on Independence Day fifty years ago and who later became a member of ADMO (Alliance Direct membership Organisation) for citizens who were not from the Malay, Indian or Chinese community, would be most amused by what is happening in post election Malaysia today. I can almost here her say her famous phrase: It is so kelam kabut! Like bangsawan!!

I remember the days spent with her, typing away as she dictated her memoir on her life in Malaysia. I remember her suitcase full of letters, pictures, documents: That's my history. That's my book, she had said to me.

Peggy left for South Africa last month to concentrate on writing this memoir. She phoned to say goodbye before leaving for the airport. But on 12th March, I received the sad news of her death.

And now I remember Morrie's beautiful quote from Tuesdays with Morrie: Death ends a life, not a relationship.

Rest in peace, my dearest Peggy. Your words, your laughter will live on with me forever.

Datin Peggy Taylor
1924 - 2008

An article in the NST about Peggy.
Over the past few months, I have written a lot about Peggy and how she had touched my life:

Shamelessly Plugging Peggy
History in a suitcase
Weekend of sorts
A Painting incomplete
Magical Merdeka Moments


An Update and Message from David Kirkness in Johannesburg

Dearest Kak Teh, and to all of Peggy's many friends, I've just returned home from her funeral service, St Charles' Church, Victory Park, Johannesburg, at which I was privileged to speak in her honour. Marilyn had some beautiful words to say, and sung one of her own compositions "We Never Say Goodbye". What a true Taylor she is. A moving moment in time for me. On her behalf, thanks to all for so many wonderful wishes in this past week.

Magical merdeka moments...

As I walked up the sweeping staircase of this magnificent mansion, I allowed my mind to run riot for a bit. Now, did our prince who was to become the father of the nation, skip two steps at a time in excitement anticipating the moment when he was to sign the treaty that proclaimed our independence or did he, as befitting his status and title, walk slowly but surely as he had done throughout the months leading up to the negotiation fifty one years ago? I believe, our beloved Tunku, being the fun guy that he was, judging from the interviews that I had with his friends and those who worked with him, would have skipped a bit, if no one was looking. He would be singing the dondang sayang silently, or do a jig of the ronggeng – his heart bursting with joy.

Last night, I retraced his footsteps as I entered Lancaster House as this early nineteenth century building, in the leafy and secluded corner of St. James’ almost next door to the Queen’s, once again hosted a historic occassion for our country. Lancaster House was the venue for the 50^th Merdeka reception, hosted by the Malaysian High Commission in London. I was in awe of the surroundings, the ornate decorations, the opulence and the grandeur – everything that had been witness to the birth of so many new nations.

So, if this is the climax of my hectic schedule running up and down the country during the last few months, then I am happy. Deliriously so. I had just got off the Eurostar from Paris in time for the toastmaster to clear his throat and call out the names of dignitaries attending the reception. I was so exhausted after days of trainhopping from Manchester to Liverpool to Edinburgh to Paris, London and back to Paris. I am so tired of going back to an empty hotel room and living out of a suitcase and I am so tired of going to sleep in a big empty bed with only the TV set speaking to me as I doze off to lalaland. But Lancaster House and all its magnificience and all its history made it worth every single sleep that I had missed.

Earlier I had plans to blog about the the meeting with the Scottish ex-servicemen in Edinburgh who talked of Malaya as if it was their own country. I wanted to write about their passion for the country that they had so much respect and love for, about the people they said were so warm and friendly. I also wanted to write about the eve of the 50^th anniversary that I spent with Datin Peggy Taylor, Frederick Lees and his wife Marie, and Jean and Barry Floyd in the beautiful picturesque town of Rye. Frederick and Marie and of course Datin Taylor were there on 31^st August 1957 and they could talk about the times they were in Malaya till the Sussex cows come home. jean and Barry, having worked in Malaysia for a long time, know more about our country then we do. Peggy was in her batik baju kurung and Barry in his batik shirt.

Peggy was a close friend of Tunku and had been his confidante on a lot of things, not least his choice of the bunga raya as the national flower. Fred lees, was of course the Englishman who shouted Merdeka from the control room at the Merdeka Stadium. One can sit for hours and listen to Fred. He has a way of telling stories and and make you laugh. Fred, as a young MCS officer worked with the Tunku, Tun Razak and many others. But one very important task that he carried out was organising the programme for the big day. From the copy of his programme, you can see every minute detail was planned with military precision. But, according to Fred, no one anticipated the school bus that went into the monsoon drain nearby!

Fred talked about how Tunku would come up with ideas at the last minute. Walking with the Duke of Gloucester to their seats in the stadium, Tunku popped his head into the control room where Fred was sitting with Syed Jaafar Albar and said:

“Albar, when we are walking back after the ceremony, shout Merdeka into the microphone,” which of course Syed Jaafar Albar did until he lost his voice and the responsibility fell on to the young MCS officer that was Fred. In that joyous and happy atmosphere, no one knew any better whose voice it was that shouted Merdeka into the microphone 50 years ago. Fred will go down in history as the Englishman who shouted Merdeka!

Yes, I wanted to write all that – and now I have. We had a kind of mini celebration eating salmon and salad with fried rice that Marie made. I had brought with me nasi lemak and sambal ikan bilis that Peggy instantly demolished with vigour. We even had a mini Malaysian flag flying on the table. It was a beautiful day – one that I’d like to write about properly, some day.

Rushing back from Rye, both my husband and I fell silent – each with our own thoughts. We had our own agenda. And we scribbled them down. That evening, straight from Fred’s house in Rye, we went to the special doa selamat do at the surau in Malaysia Hall. For the first time, we enjoyed some sajaks that our bilal read, the one that my husband scribbled on the train and the syair that I hastily composed on the 1550 from Rye. Our young talented Ustaz did a nasyid – all of us remembering our beloved nation in our own way.

Then we prayed for the continued safety, peace and prosperity of our country.

The food after the event was like no other!

And of course I wanted also to blog about the celebration in Paris, chatting till late at night with Chef Wan, but I think it is best that I leave that with the celebration that I am about to enjoy in Oslo tomorrow.

Yes, it sounds a little hectic but there were moments when I let my hair down when I enjoyed an evening with Mawi, shared a song with Sharizan Borhan and enjoyed the beautiful Melayu asli songs with the Asika band who made Ala Canggung like I have never heard before!

Will be back after Oslo!

Read the story as appeared in Sunday Times here.

A Weekend of sorts

Comfortable in our baju kelawar batik which clashed shamelessly with the chequered table cloth, we sat buttering our croissants at the breakfast table at lunch time. By the time we each had our third croissant, our conversation had taken us to who’s holidaying with who on the slopes of the Alps, who’s having a rest in Jo’burg away from the hustle bustle of the corporate world and why so and so fell from grace in the unpredictable world of politics. So, this is how the rich and famous live, huh, I thought, stuffing my mouth with more croissants to stop the jaw from clanking to the floor.

I chose to spend the weekend away from the hustle bustle of London, internetless, ymless and indeed blogless. Without much regret, I had packed my weekend bag for a work related trip that was to take me into a world so remote and so different from my own mundane tube to bus to tube routine where a rare treat would be a ride in a black taxi!

Anyway, hubby sent me off at the train station with a hug, a doa and with promises and promises to take the vitamins, the supplements that he religiously packs for me on every trip, I waved him off and immersed myself in the world of Dato Hamid and his delicious Confessions of an Old Boy. Indeed, his world in the prolific hands of Kam Raslan is not unlike that related to me at the breakfast table by my newfound friend.

I ooohed and aaahed as she regaled me with stories of themed parties with VIPs and VVIPs doing the rhumba and the samba, tripping into the pool while doing the hoola-hoola. I tsked-tsked as she intimated about goings on behind the scenes. All these chit chats and Kam Raslan’s book is taking me right back to the seventies and even beyond; Malaysia’s jet setting scene. Now I can’t help thinking that I am taking a fast drive back and back into time with the help of people who were there and had done it.

That was what took me to this remote village last weekend. It was a small quaint village in an idyllic setting, with small winding roads that only allow one vehicle to pass, a local grocery cum post office and a pub, surrounded by low-lying hills that go as far as the eyes could see.
I suppose at a place where time is almost at a standstill, you can afford to look back at leisure.
So, that was what we did the whole weekend. The only trip we made was to the kitchen and back.

We only stopped to switch on the TV to see the Queen’s birthday celebration, and even that took my friend, who had seen the independence of three countries during her lifetime, down memory lane. Watching the smartly dressed soldiers doing the Victory March, she joined in giving the orders. “I led the Victory march in Chittagong, you know,” she said, remembering it as if it was yesterday. And she marvelled at the sight of the Queen, who at 80, a few years younger than her, still looked energetic and strong enough to witness the whole ceremony.

“I was privileged enough to sit with Her Majesty on a settee for two when she visited Malaysia. Her Majesty was amused and highly entertained by the performances of the different ethnic groups in Malaysia the night before – but certainly it seemed to take forever,” she said.

Oh yes, she had been places, she had seen events that we read about in the media. And one weekend is certainly not enough. We talked and talked until she nodded off to sleep and I had to gently wake her up to help her to her room.


She is one of those ex-expat ladies who still remembers Malaya and Malaysia with fondness. Before coming to meet her, I had joined a group of other ex-expat ladies who didn’t want to miss out on celebrating Malaysia’s 50th independence celebration, by reciting pantuns on Malaysia. They had taken the trouble to research on pantuns, brushed up their Malay and went on their own poetic journey to remember Malaysia. I was touched.

On the return journey back I went back to the adventures of Dato Hamid, one I recommend everyone to read. From Swittzerland to Monte Carlo and seedy clubs of London – you will be highly entertained! I promise.

Like I said before, the hayfever and work schedule had meant that I had missed making entries on father’s day, someone’s birthday, the death of someone special and even someone’s wedding. I didn’t realise that when hubby met me at the station that Sunday, it was Father’s Day – but it certainly didn’t matter to him. He kindly took my bag, while I made a quick change into something nice in the ladies’ before I said goodbye to him again.

I was privileged that Sunday to personally wish Selamat Pengantin Baru to someone who had just recently tied the knot. And I can tell you, she is better looking than her pictures in the media! And very nice too!


Aaaaah...welcome back to busy, pollen infested London!

Shamelessly Plugging Peggy

When Peggy came into my life, she not only led me by the hand and introduced me to leaders and prominent people of my own country, whose stories I only read in history books and autobiographies, she also filled in the vast number of gaps in my knowledge of the country I left behind some 27 years ago, and one she adopted for nearly 40 years.

Datin Peggy Taylor is now 82 and in recollecting her memories of pre merdeka Malaya days and Malaysia in the throes of independence in preparation for a book that she is writing, she has given me the privilege of walking down memory lane with her.

I had blogged about her here but I can now reveal that the one with the history in the suitcase is Datin Peggy Taylor whose short snippets I have edited for RTM’s Galeri Perdana – a three part series which will be shown starting tonight at 8.30 pm.

Before leaving for Malaysia, my husband and I regularly visited Peggy who lives in a small quaint village in South east England. For days, we looked through her suitcase containing letters from Bapa Malaysia, Tunku Abdul Rahman, a note from Lim Kit Siang who had then just completed his law degree in prison, a letter from Singapore’s Rajaratnam who promised that the separation from Malaysia would just be temporary and many, many more. And I’d sit at her feet, as the fire crackled in the fireplace, while she narrated her life story – an episode of her life in Malaya when she and her husband went there in 1953.

Part of my mission when I went back to Malaysia was to bring to attention to certain interested parties that Peggy is writing her book. And I am certain, Peggy’s book will be of interest not only to students of history but also to the general reading public. Peggy has a lot to tell.

Peggy’s friendship with many of our former leaders like Tunku, Tun Razak, Tun Dr Ismail and her voluntary efforts in Pemadam, the Monfort Boys’ Home, inadvertently led her to the Malaysian political arena. She was by then a Malayan.

“Tunku asked us, why not be citizens of Malaya. After all Malaya will never leave the commonwealth,” and after discussing with her husband Eric, who was by then an architect with the Kuala Lumpur Municipal Council, they became citizens of Malaya.

Eric went on to receive his Dato Seri Paduka di raja from the Agong who was then from Terengganu, and later became the Chief Architect of Kuala Lumpur. Peggy was then invited to join ADMO – Alliance Direct Membership Organisation – an offshoot of the alliance – mainly for those non Malays, non Chinese and non Indian...in short – people like Peggy who wanted to join a political party. And Peggy was very active, helping Tun Razak in campaigns, organising events and many more.

During his time, Tunku commissioned Peggy to decorate mansions for VIPs and organise functions for visiting dignitories. And Peggy never forgot Tunku’s birthdays – 63 roses for his 63rd birthday, for example.

Peggy had many memorable dealings with Tunku. One occassion was when Tunku was deciding on the flower to choose for Malaysia’s national flower.

She asked, “Why the hibiscus?”
Tunku said in true Tunku style,”What’s the probleeeemmmmm?”
She answered,”The problem is, the hibiscus wilts as soon as you pluck it!”

Anyway, all these and many more you can watch on RTM1 tonight and tomorrow night and the night after.


It was rather by coincidence that I was invited for the launch of The Reluctant Politician - Tun Dr Ismail and his Time – a book by Dr Ooi Kee Beng based on private papers of the late Tun. While in Kuala Lumpur, I realised that few people, especially the younger generation have heard of Datin Peggy Taylor, never mind ADMO. So I thought in Johore where the launch was held, some,especially the writer himself can throw some light. NO, Dr Ooi never heard of Peggy nor ADMO. I ventured over to Tun Musa’s table. Of course – Datin Peggy Taylor! I know of her. I then went over to Tawfik Tun Ismail.... "Aaaaah, yes, Aunty Peggy!!! How is she??? " He asked delighted that I am bringing the book on his father back to Datin Peggy Taylor – the lady his late father had invited to join and revive ADMO. Peggy became Chairman of Selangor ADMO.

This morning, I spoke to Peggy again. After reading her copy of The Reluctant Politician, Peggy is certain that it must have been Tun who established ADMO. There's many more that she wants to say about the book, but this will have to come later.

Anyway, I shouldn't really be writing more about this. Do watch RTM1 – Galeri Perdana at 8.30 tonight (9th April)– tomorrow night (10th April) and the night after that (11th April). So there – shamelessly I am plugging Peggy.

PS Thank you all for the feedback. and guess what? I managed to watch the second part on the internet. The wonders of technology. Went to www.rtm.net.my and then did the streaming and what not - and actually watched it in realtime.

History in a suitcase

Lately, I have been travelling up and down the country and there were times when I can’t even remember what day it was, which part of Britain I was in or more importantly what I was there for! So before I forget what I am going to write for this entry, I had better take my daily dose of Ginkgo Biloba and get on with it.

The problem with my memory at the moment is that I am so overloaded with information and no amount of Ginkgo or fish diet can help me now. I am trying to pack in fifty odd years of history in a memory that is in need of an upgrade. Therefore I marveled and am in awe of the people I have been meeting with over the last few weeks. They are much, much older than me, but they must have had a very rich fish diet to have retained such wonderful memory. Their minds are still fresh with memories of yesteryears. They remember dates, names of roads, buildings and people!

Take this English lady I met a fortnight ago. Who would believe that in a remote village somewhere in the south coast of Britain, there lives a fine old lady who could tell you you what transpired during the election campaigns in Malaya, what happened during the late Tun Abdul Razak’s arrival from China, or what was communicated during her tete-e-tete with the Queen during her visit to Malaysia. Who built what and when...and who said what about it!..and even in what manner it was spoken!

And all the while, I sat at her feet, with the fire crackling and burning in her fireplace to keep us warm in her not so little cottage in the village. I had taken the earliest train possible to see her and it was when night had fallen in the southern skies that I returned to London, my mind spilling with information, my battery badly in need of a recharge.

This lady, who went to Malaya in 1953 and stayed on being an active socialite and an even more active figure in the political scene, has a lot to tell. With the 50^th anniversary of the independence day coming, her memory is set to active mode once again, recalling all those events leading right up to the moment when she stood on the steps of the pavilion at the padang to watch the Union Jack being lowered. And even beyond.

To help her jolt her memory is a suitcase of letters, cards and documents from past prime ministers, former politicians from both side of the bench, famous names who visited and made her acquaintance, letterheads and postmarks from prestigious addresses, black and white photographs fraying at the edges capturing moments never to be repeated. Even envelopes, those familiar brown envelopes with URUSAN SERI PADUKA BAGINDA written across it! These are lovingly kept in plastic sleeves.

When I arrived at her house, I was met with a very cheerful Selamat datang and Apa khabar. Even after giving up her Malaysian citizenship, and coming back to live in her country of origin, she never lost touch with things Malaysian. If I am brave enough to admit, she is even more clued up with developments in Malaysia now. And now she is ready to tell her story.

Once in a while, she'd ask"Do you know Zaharah...." and I didn't know.

“Here’s my life story,” she said pointing to her suitcase full of letters and documents and pictures. All we need to do now is piece them together. I now have with me four tapes and three video tapes to look through.

Two days ago, I found myself in Liverpool. Liverpool has been a huge source of information to quench my thirst in knowledge on Malay sailors. Admittedly, there’s not many left. Many died since my last visit two years ago. During my recent visit, I was informed that a few Pak Cik sailors are not well. And Pak Cik Ngah Musa is in hospital recuperating from an operation. Even if I had five minutes, I must visit Pak cik Musa.

Two years ago, when I visited Liverpool, Pak Cik Karim was already dying in hospital. I visited him and managed to record his message to his relatives in Singapore and Australia. They didn't know he was dying. And indeed he died a week later.

From the hospital, I went to see Pak Cik Arshad, dear Pak Cik Arshad who, in spite of his Parkinson’s Disease had kept me company in the Kesatuan clubhouse when I was there. later during his last few years, he lived in a nursing home. He still remembered me as the one who put him on TV. He decorated his small but comfortable room with all things from Malaysia. Two small Malaysian flags stood on his cupboard alongside photographs of his parents. Pak Cik Arshad also died sometime after that. Pak Cik Majid, whose life I also documented on TV which then reunited him with his family, also passed away after that. The same story with Pak Cik Bakar, who baked me a cake to eat during my long train journey home to London. So, I really wanted to see Pak Cik Musa.

I met Pak Cik Musa perhaps in the nineties when I did a feature about the Malay sailor settlement there. And I have written many articles about them too. Since then many people and media have approached them too. Anyway, Pak Cik Musa is relatively young compared to the rest.

He left Malaya in 1949 at the age of 18. Now he is 77 with an excellent memory of his days at sea. I expected to see a frail old man in his hospital bed. But what a wonderful surprise. He looked so well after the operation. We had only 15 minutes before closing time, but I managed to get so many precious quotes from him; about him meeting Tunku Abdul Rahman at his rally in Hyde Park during the months before the independence, about his adventures at sea after being sent off to the Korean War and many more. All these communicated in thick and strong Terengganu accent! to him, I was Jaroh! What a beautiful mind!

Pak Cik Musa is adamant that he will go back to his Terengganu when he is well. He wants to book his plot in a cemetery in Losong, for that is where he wants to be when his time is up.

That fifteen minute meeting is so precious to me. Pak Cik Musa has given me so much and I hope, I will meet him again.

With this massive overloading of information, please excuse me if I disappear for awhile. I need to recharge my battery and more importantly, I have loads of interviews that I need to transcribe

More on pak cik sailors:

Tribute to an old man and his sea
Goodbye Pak cik and Thanks for the memories

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A painting incomplete

Like an unfinished painting, my life lacks the details and finishing touches that make it complete. During the last few months, I have met people who have helped to paint in the details, people who were there during certain important and historic moments; moments when I was too young to remember or moments when I have been away. And I have been away for a long time.

So they came into my life and added a dash of colour here, a stroke of detail there and now a picture is emerging. Not quite complete, but there’s something there.

“You know dear, “ said the voice at the other end of the line yesterday, “ I stood on the verandah, overlooking the padang and watched the union flag come down while the Malayan flag go up,” she said, recalling that historic moment 50 years ago. Even at 82, she could remember every glorious moment of that handover.

She was very much the socialite rubbing shoulders along the corridors of power in those days and was very active in the Malaya she grew to love and still remembers with affection. In her small room down south, she surrounds herself with documents, some very, very important and old pictures of the young emerging Malaya, tasting her first few years of independence.

“But my memories are all kelam kabut,” said this very English lady punctuating her very English English with her very Malay Malay. “Sometimes”, she added, “it comes out like bangsawan,” and we both roared out with laughter down the line, this Malay Mak Cik and this very fine English lady.

She said she didn't think her recollection would interest me, not realising that I was frantically jotting down everything she narrated; about her first meeting with Tunku at the railway station, about David Marshall accompanying the Tunku to meet Chin Peng in Baling, about Ong Yoke Lin’s order for serai to make satay for the Merdeka celebration at the UN. If she’d have me as her tenant for a week, I’d pack right now and leave my loved ones to fend for themselves.

Indeed, there were many, many people, British ex-servicemen especially, whom I met over the last few months, who said they could recall their tour of duty in Malaya, during the days before the Independence, during the emergency and the konfrantasi, as if it was yesterday.

“I remember the day it was announced and because we were away from the capital, we decided to play football against the officers, and we gave them quite a beating,” said one, adding hesitantly that they had one too many stengah's that day.

“Oh I was there and I was wearing the songkok and I stood to attention, feeling very proud indeed,” chipped in another.

“How can I forget Malaya for that was where I met my wife. She was the daughter of a planter,” said one officer who went on to write a novel about the romance between a young officer and a local beauty.

And indeed, one introduced me to his daughter, a product of the romance with a Chinese local beauty.

And yet another said he helped build a school for the Orang Asli and taught them English. He also spoke of the unfriendly forest and the even more unfriendly and hostile communists, especially the ones he came face to face with when he and his men stormed a house.

The last group of ex-servicemen I met was in Ipswich last week and some came with old photographs of their life in the jungle, one had a photograph of the baby he helped to deliver. They all came to the town hall, some with walking sticks, some in wheelchairs. For some, their widows and children came holding up pictures tracking down people who were in the same regiments or units as their husbands or fathers. But all of them came with memories of Malaya. Even the dog handler.

The dog handler started his journey from here to Germany to fetch what was known as wardogs...all 14 of them and with another handler, spent 5 weeks on the ship bound for Malaya. Needless to say, by the end of the voyage, they became very close to the dogs which were trained to sniff and kill.

At a conference I attended some months ago, a scholar showed me the scribblings of a survivor of the death railway, his jottings as the Japanese prisoner of war and many more. At a reunion of Japanese POW’s at the Imperial War Museum some years ago, I jotted down some interesting stories too and shared with them their harrowing moments.

Over the last few weeks too, I had been spending time with a very special lady. She left for Malaysia in 1958 and has been there ever since. We talked and talked from morning till night, and once continued our conversation as we walked linking arms along King Street, she in her red beret and I in my pink tudung. A strange pair to the onlookers of SW London as we walked and talked, had our coffee at Starbuck and talked some more but we had so much in common that everything else was oblivious to the pair of us

To a certain extent her life is a mirror reflection of mine. She chatted about the year she arrived soon after independence, about the sixties and seventies and about the years that I missed while being away. And I talked about Britain under Margaret Thatcher and the day she left number 10 in tears, about being at the gates of Buckingham palace when the tragic story of Diana broke, about being at those places which were bombed by the extremists, about being there to celebrate London as Olympic city and many more moments that she had missed.

Anyway, she and the rest and many more have contributed so much to fill in the blanks and added their personal touches. And I will continue in my quest to meet many more people who will add more dashes of colour to this painting of mine.

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