THE world changes. Yet the memories captured and frozen in time — moments one never thought would come to pass — remain.
In my child’s eyes, I still see and recall a world that has gone by, the spaces and the people in it that I still love.
Located about five miles from Kuala Lumpur, Brickfields was far from a remote Indian enclave, even in the 1960s.
The outside world would soon collide with my small space called Thambapillai Kampung in Brickfields amidst the May 13, 1969, riots — and my childhood world would become the past.
We were a small community, a kampung of about 100 households.
All of us were tenants to a lawyer landlord who charged a small rent for a small portion of his land.
Many Indians lived here, most of them just scraping above the poverty line. What we lacked in the material world was made up for by a strong sense of community. It wasn’t perfect, but we co-existed amicably and often looked out for one another.
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Thambapillai Kampung had a good mix of Hindu and Christian families, mostly Tamil, both Indian and Sri Lankan.
Mine was a Christian childhood. The Methodist Tamil Church was a 10-minute walk from our home.
The Hindu temple, Sri Kandaswamy Kovil on Scott Road, was even closer.
The kampung has now been replaced by condominiums none of us could have afforded, except for the lawyer who sold his land to make way for the gentrification of this place. The church and the temple still remain.
CHRISTMAS PALAGARAM-MAKING
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Our house often became a hive of activity during Christmas, with the making of palagaram — traditional Indian snacks, sweets and confections.
My mother and her group of women friends, Hindu and Christian alike, all housewives, would plan a schedule for preparing treats such as muruku, achimuruku, chippi, neiyi orrundai, monturikottu, and sometimes even kalu oorundai, which were almost as hard as cricket balls.
They took great care to gather the ingredients and made everything entirely from scratch.
Below is an excerpt from my poem A Brickfields Christmas, which narrates my childhood experience of watching this ritual unfold year after year:
December descends on us.
Womenfolk, friends of
Amma, Sithi and Paati,
all aunties to us arrive.
Palagaram-making begins.
Muruku, achimuruku, chippi
and neiyee oorundai –
South Indian festive fare.
We wait at the side lines
like cats for scraps.
My elder sisters put their
culinary skills to work.
The fragrance of freshly baked
cookies and cakes
waft through the house,
giving a sweetness
over the usual aroma
of curries in our home.
A festive air spreads
and seeps through the house.
ANNUAL HOUSE SPRING CLEANING
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The days leading up to Christmas fell during the school holidays, and we children were homebound. It was also the time for our big annual spring cleaning, as we prepared for Christmas and the New Year.
Everyone had tasks to do, from scrubbing every corner to repainting the entire house. This is reflected in extracts from my poem A Brickfields Christmas:
It’s November and school’s out.
We are all home-bound.
There’s an excitement
despite the work at hand.
Paint brushes appear
and paint pails sit next to Appa’s bicycle.
The yearly routine is set to begin
in our house.
The house waits
like a patient giant
its coat slowly scraped away
and its nakedness to be clothed
by an eight-sibling work team.
Chores allocated according
to seniority and skills.
I am happy to scrape
last year’s peeling paint.
Limestone white
for personal living spaces
ICI blue paint just for the hall.
The worn-down white planks over
the months are slowly lapped up
by paint-laden brushes.
Large black spiders once secure
in crevices now scuttle about.
Plank by plank whiteness emerges.
A new brightness which in time
will wear off once more.
The house smells fresh
and a lightness caresses us.
ANNUAL CHRISTMAS SHOPPING
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Our family practice was that all the children would get new clothes for the festive season. We had three sets — one for Christmas Eve, one for Christmas Day and one for New Year’s Day.
Amma (mother) was the prime mover in all our preparations. We would set out to Batu Road, now Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman, to Globe Silk Store and Kishu’s Departmental Stall, which were known for their affordable prices, to buy our shirts.
Along the way, we would stop at Central Shoe Shop or Bata to buy our shoes.
Taking a break from shopping, we would be treated to murtabak at the famous Kassim Restaurant, which was also located among these shops.
It was also the time of year for buying gifts. For this, Annan (older brother) would accompany us and we would go to Deen’s to buy our board games, building and construction sets and even musical instruments.
Everything would be gift-wrapped and placed under our Christmas tree. Besides our chosen gifts, there would be a few surprises as well.
Appa (father) would be busy with his work and left these festive preparations to Amma. As a news vendor, he had no holidays. He worked every day as long as newspapers were printed and needed to be delivered to his customers. Yet he still found time to take the boys to the tailor near our house on Scott Road to have our short pants sewn.
CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS
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The last few weeks before Christmas, the postman would bring Christmas cards for the family and for those of us who were of card-sending and receiving age.
We always looked out for who would get the most greeting cards besides our parents.
In the last few Christmases in Brickfields, I was among those assigned to write the greetings and addresses on the Christmas cards before they were sent off to the nearby Brickfields post office.
I can still remember how many times I wrote: “To, Mr and Mrs xxx and fly (family) … Best wishes from Mr and Mrs N. Vethamani and fly.”
A few days before Christmas, we would begin putting up the decorations. The cards we received would be strung and hung on the living room walls with a length of string to hold them in place.
Balloons would be blown and hung in the corners and along the sides of the walls.
Finally, the Christmas tree that had been stored away after the previous year’s celebration would be taken out and decorated:
Last year’s Christmas tree
is uncovered from its yearlong dust.
My younger brother and I
hang the glittering trinkets
fearing a drop could shatter
the fragile bells and baubles.
Our friend Ahmad is cutting
out crepe paper and
making streamers.
A golden star crowns our tree.
Annan places the lights
A final touch, Akka sprays the snow.
For the first time that night
the lights come on again.
The multi-coloured twinkling bulbs
complete the advent of Christmas
into our kampung home.
CHRISTMAS EVE
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Christmas Eve marked the height of the festivities for us children.
It was a day of giving and sharing, filled with Christmas cheer through palagaram and Christmas goodies.
Around five in the evening, as the day cooled and shadows lengthened, we would begin delivering palagaram to our neighbours, both Hindu and Christian.
Amma, Paati (grandmother) and my elder sisters would carefully arrange our homemade treats on trays, each covered with a lace cloth.
It was a joyous occasion, carrying trays of goodwill from house to house. We would be warmly greeted, and often the mothers of the household would accept our gifts, sometimes leaving a small token in return — usually a RM1 or RM5 note.
These cash gifts thrilled us because they meant more spending money during Christmas. Watching my elder siblings, I knew even as a child that I had better enjoy my time, for with each passing year the younger ones would take my place.
What I didn’t realise was how quickly this world would slip away.
The Christmas tree would be lit in the evening and our presents placed on the floor beneath the branches.
Annan would play Christmas carols on the gramophone. The day would end with crackers and fireworks with my cousins who lived a few doors away.
We would wait anxiously through the evening for Christmas to arrive, though we seldom managed to stay awake until midnight.
The excitement of the day would eventually wear us out, and we would end up in our beds.
On some Christmas eves, our Sittappa (uncle) would butcher a young goat in his garden.
We children were not allowed to witness the actual killing, but once it was done, we would gather around to watch as Sittappa cut and cleaned the carcass.
On Christmas day and for the days that followed, we would enjoy mutton curry along with mutton tripe, mutton dalcha and other mutton delicacies.
CHRISTMAS DAY
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On Christmas morning, the air would feel fresh and new; the house, newly painted, and all of us dressed in our new clothes.
The day would begin early for Amma, Paati and my elder sisters, who would be in the kitchen, cooking for us and for the guests arriving for Christmas lunch.
Amma was a good cook, and we — along with our guests — always looked forward to her biryani and other dishes.
Often, Christmas lunch included turkey kurma curry. Breakfast might be fruitcake, jam tarts and other palagaram.
Before long, it would be time to get ready for church. My poem One Christmas Morning captures how the day would begin during our years in Brickfields:
The smell of curries
and familiar kitchen sounds
of Paati, Amma and my sisters
have awakened me.
My younger brother already about
caught up with his presents
opened at midnight by the Christmas tree
has no time for me.
Annan has switched on the gramophone
and Pat Boone sings carols
that he’d be home for Christmas
though not my sister, away in a distant land.
The smells of curries and ghee rice
waft through the house
guests will arrive,
but not yet.
Appa’s come back,
his bicycle still laden with the day’s newspapers
offices closed for the holiday
deliveries can wait another day.
A brother’s in the bathroom,
another awaits his turn,
soon we’d all have bathed
and dressed in our Christmas best.
Ready for church,
a quick walk away.
Dressed in our Christmas best, we would set off for church, just a few minutes’ walk away.
Amma, Paati and my elder sisters would be clad in their new sarees; Appa in his new vesti and shirt; and we sons in our new shirts, shorts and shoes.
The church would be adorned in festive Christmas colours, and throughout the congregation there would be a shared sense of joy as we celebrated the birth of Jesus.
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Once the church service was over and we were back home, the busy hours in our house would begin. Family friends would start making their way over for lunch, just as we had visited their homes for Deepavali and other occasions.
We children would have invited some of our own friends too, and would delight in playing hosts to them. Annan‘s and Akka‘s friends, their work colleagues and our classmates all would come calling.
Visiting friends’ homes during festive occasions is now very much a thing of the past.
Malaysians once welcomed friends of different races and religions into their homes.
Unfortunately, the tradition of the “open house” has gradually declined and has largely faded away.
Close-knit communities like the one we once had in Thambapillai Kampung, Brickfields, are no longer common.
Today, many people prefer to celebrate in neutral venues such as restaurants, where there is little risk of offending religious sensibilities.
Dietary requirements now take centre stage: Muslims require halal food, Hindus should not be served beef and there are also vegetarians and vegans to consider.
When such differences come to define our gatherings, the spirit of togetherness is diminished, and what divides us begins to matter more than celebrating our diversity.
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Over the decades, my Christmases have changed. Many years after our Brickfields days, and with our parents no longer with us, there are no longer Christmas gatherings in the family home.
My siblings now have families of their own, and my sons, grown and with families too, do not celebrate Christmas.
What remains with me are the happy memories of my childhood Christmases. Even so, it is still a happy occasion.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
An internationally recognised author, the writer is a fictionist, poet, editor, critic, bibliographer and academic.
© New Straits Times Press (M) Bhd
