Tales [not so tall] of "Timmy"
the not-so-very-polite Malaya Hall Cat
in London!  

[continued]

y the whiskers of my striped ancestors, I must say this Whacky fella (the pseudonym of a late forties Victorian: I overheard him jabbering away about the old VI with Zain Azraai, and got to know they were neighbours in the Thamby Abdullah Road area) must have taken things a bit too seriously with what some hungry law student must have said in a moment of bravura. He said it alright, and whether he may have meant it in all earnestness is another story. The pinch was that other law students and the like believed him and liked what they heard, especially as the reigning president Zain’s room was right behind the forming queue on the landing.

I mean, I didn’t really mind – if you want to know the absolute truth – of being voted in as President of the Malayan Students Union. The prestige of being president is not given to every cat, let’s say. Into the bag, I might have got a couple of perks coming my way like extra fish-bones at cocktails and official dinners at the government’s expense, if you know what I mean, and a cuddle or two from luxuriously-wrapped and scented ladies in sarong-kebaya(s), cheongsam(s) and saree(s), instead of the usual low gruff grunts I get from neck-tied rough-necks who usually spurn me by turning their backs on me as soon as they see me striding in their direction. Then, again, I’ve got to admit it, I was a bit fascinated by Zain’s life-style: all calm and self-contained ponderousness, as if it was only a matter of waiting to get nearer and nearer to the Day when all doors will be opened for him. As for myself, I was getting a trifle tired of having to lurk between legs to enter any room at this stage. In any case, there was no stopping Whacky. Like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, he collared every one coming in or going out of Malaya Hall; I don’t mean he actually got hold of the tight collars bulging with ties, but what he did, the way he approached his prospective "victims", the manner of his sudden broadsides on the "State of the Union" got everybody in a whirl. Some even wondered aloud if the fellow was not simply whacko! You know what I mean? A nut or a screw loose up there!

As for me, I was tired out and worn down to the bones, following him around the Hall. In any one day, his meanderings in MH in search of victims to hear his account of the total disregard MSU and Malayan Students Unit (Department) entertained of the concept of democracy, and its only non-un-democratic principle: elections, had me in a twirl. Like chasing around my own tail and not getting to munch it!

Quite frankly, I had to do so much legging up and down the stairs, from floor to floor, dining-room to toilet, library to TV-room, lounge to toilet (I have a feeling our Whacky must have been suffering from a bladder problem) and back, first floor to third floor, from concert hall up the narrow winding stairway to the reception and the toilet and back that my flanks were shorn like a sliced sole; I didn’t even dare to show myself when the Siamese-cross she-cat ambled past as usual at the witching hour. Whacky hounded them all. I noticed one thing though; as quickly as he "collared" one "victim" after another, he just as swiftly lost his grip on them. From out of nowhere a lot of people gathered in MH, including those he initially cornered like Singapore Brando (here I must cut-in to say I was really feeling sorry for Whacky, for this guy was saying things against Whacky behind his back and trying to run him down like the mastodonic mastiff in the Tom & Jerry cartoon really deserved to be!), especially those with connections with the out-going committee and the MSUnit, who set about denouncing Whacky which became a kind of open competitive sports event working up from the groundswell of the preliminary qualifying rounds when large hints were dropped to the final rounds when open defamatory appeals were let loose.

"Why listen, lah?" one former MSUnit employee and Bar student who became a legal hotshot in Singapore [in those days – despite Malayan Independence – collusion between the British authorities, the Peoples Action Party and the Malayan Alliance Party was as strong as between, say, "kissing cousins" or even as within taboo-flouting ties], said. "He jes cracko! Jes take a look at his clothes. You see anybody here dress like that, ah?" Just at that moment, Dude (pseudonym of a fellow-islander) who was standing at the main entrance waiting for someone, got alarmed. He was, in fact, waiting for Whacky to take him to the Marble Arch tube station. Dude commuted every morning to the London School of Economics and only had his white stick to guide him over the broken pavement slabs the hundred yards or so from Bryanston Square.

"D’you see him, Justin?" he said, as his Adam’s apple jerked out and disappeared. Justin (the pseudonym of a non-Victorian) swirled about on his well-heeled left ankle and scanned the square’s horizons. "They also serve who only stand and stare," moaned Dude in deep-throated gurgly tones.

"Noooup!" Then he started, "Waitaminit! There he comes! What time he say he come?"

"As usual, he’s late." Then, he got closer to Justin’s voice. "Hey, what’s he wearing?" There was a silence as Justin screwed his eyes to make out the silhouette of Whacky’s tattered gaberdine.

"The same stuff as yesterday as yesteryear!"

"Look, I’m going in." Then he had second thoughts. "Hey, Justin, can he see me?" Dude was well-concealed by the high row of tar-black railings surrounding the building.

"Nooup! Anyway, he’s looking down in front of him like always. He won’t look up until he’s right here." Justin pushed open the front right portal with his right shoulder and ushered Dude in. "Don’t worry, I’ll keep him here for a few minutes," he said, and slapped his left palm on the man’s left shoulder. "I’ll tell him you left already. "

***

"Hey! Whacky! Long time no see! What doing, lah!" Justin tried excessively to be chummy. He was a kind of permanent watch-dog at the entrance. He stationed himself for half an hour or so at the portals before and after meals, four times a day, "just taking in the air", so to speak and as the Malayans say, "just makan angin sa(ha)ja", and acting as the file-keeper for the MSU on every inmate stepping out or coming in. Attired immaculately in a dark-blue striped suit, bright white shirt and some Inns of Court tie, his hair neatly arranged in waves, the lean fair-skinned Singaporean of Indian origin, was in the habit of clicking his sleek brown-leather pointed shoes as he walked repeatedly past the portals or stood with his back against the iron railings where I was perched. I didn’t much like being ruffled rebousse poil by the man from time to time, I must say, as he paced the broad entrance slab of stone which dipped at the open door end of the threshold. Always quick on the draw to tackle any newcomer, he tried to appear menacing especially with freshie chicks, despite his lean medium build.

Whacky didn’t much care to respond, ever since Justin accompanied him late one night, very friendly-like, up near to Euston Station. I knew that something was cooking alright, so I followed them. Some two hundred yards from the station, they parted company near a telephone booth. Justin hung around the booth and waited until Whacky disappeared in the station entrance. Then he whipped out the coppers and called the coppers. I knew it, he was up to no good again. In about twenty minutes, a station wagon pulled up alongside the curb. Out jumped two plainclothesmen. Justin powwowed with them, heads very close to one another, and then he pointed in the direction of the station. Justin then started back and so I followed him. That night, I missed seeing the Siamese-cross she-cat. Darned luck that!

And just when Whacky was settling down on one of the smooth marble ticket-counter sills for the night, wrapped up in his eternal dirty-brown raincoat, five policemen – two in plainclothes – made a descentin the waiting-room and started checking passengers’ tickets. Whacky who was rudely shaken awake by a fellow-night-resident of the station had difficulty concealing his status as a night-loper. He was soon herded with three other bearded and unkempt waiting-room travellers into a corner, watched over by an helmeted bobby. The checking continued to much griping by both bona fide and faux voyageurs. It was around one-twenty by the railway Roman numbered wall-clock. The whole place reeked of unwashed woollen pullovers and cotton under-wear, mixed with sardine oil. And the air in the high, unventilated space, astir during the day with frantic movement, now settled and choked with surreptitiously discharged methane gas. Deep down in the bowels of the London Underground a rumbling gathered force. It shattered the night like, I imagine, a German V2 over the city. "Last train to no where!" it appeared to scream as the brakes skidded on screeching wheels!" Whacky had never eluded the law. This was his only chance as a law student.

A slight commotion cropped up with one of the sleeping travellers. The helmeted policeman had to lend a hand. The steps to freedom beckoned. A wide-open striated whale-mouth. Whacky had no idea how far down they reached. If he missed the train, he would be trapped. He fiddled the used tickets in his coat pocket. His glances darted frantically from the descending stairs to the long benches and the checking policemen. The rumbling vibrations now reached the ground floor. In a jiffy, he darted and jumped three or four steps at a time down through the hot rushing musty air. The rumbling seemed to die down. He could hear the doors. The steps wound intestinally down what seemed a cul-de-sac. He felt he was there already, but the winding tunnel of stairs resonated with his stomping hush-puppies and drowned out all notion of distance. The train had stopped. Whacky was out-of-breath. Only his heaving and straining lungs rang in his years now when at last he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. There were only two silhouettes approaching. He dashed past unseeing. The doors were closing. He dived. His coat was caught behind him. He legs gave under him. His body convulsed in spasms as he gasped for air. His only thought: SAVED!

You are wondering how I know all this. Well, alright, an old cat cousin of mine who used to dine on the sardines left-over in railway waiting-rooms told me what really happened. You don’t believe me? Well, I don’t blame you, you don’t know much about catty-chat, or even a chatty-cat, it would seem!

***

Whacky didn’t respond to the initial hailing. A leer lighting up on his pock-marked pallid face, Justin affected an air of camaraderie and cried as soon as Whacky skipped up the few inturned-stone steps leading to the main entrance door.

"Hey! Whack! Long time no see? What?" He waited an instant for some reaction, and finding none, started up again. "What doing, Man?" Whacky paused in his steps as Justin cut across his path. "Hey, Man, she looking for you all the time." Whacky fixed him with his honey-bee eyes. "Hey, Man, she looking for you high and low!"

Whacky appeared interested in an exchange, but he feigned tidak-apa-apa-titude. "Did you see Dude?"

"No, he gone, lah! But where you been, she hounding for you like a dog! Her tongue all down down lah!"

"Who?" queried Whacky, for he wouldn’t let pass the opportunity of meeting up with even the She-Devil so long as it was a SHE!

"Sakit lah!"

"Euh?"

"Sakit…uh..err..what’s her name? …ah…aaa..Guava! Sakit Guava, lah! " The name didn’t register any-what-so-ever feeling of recognition in him. "She says she must see you. Said someone told her you passed the GCE Eng-Lit A-level. Right?" Justin looked somewhat pleadingly at Whacky. "Not right ah?"

"Sounds like a Mexican name," Whacky said and looked pleased.

"Right?"

"What does she want from me?"

"She says ‘those cilaka English examiners’ failed her. She jes damn mad lah!"

"So?"

"So she says she wants to see you. Anglo-American classics all damn diarrhoea lah, she says."

"Why see me?"

"She says, you passed, so she wants to see you."

"If she thinks the classics not good enough for her, she could go elsewhere, err.. I don’t know…maybe to South… "

"She is always carrying a book in her rottan bag, a paperback, all loose and all torn…she says she read book all told fifty times…"

"No wonder!"

"… lemme see…a book…yeaa…something Swami, you know by that Indian fella lah."

"You mean Swami and Friends?"

"Not so sure, not 100% sure lah! The title page torn already, so couldn’t see. Next time, will take close-up look to see. But she swears by it! Says the greatest book in the world by the greatest writer in the world, of…of… of all time."

"No wonder she failed Eng-Lit. at A-level! It’s a book for children as far as I can remember."

"But that no susah lah! She got gov’men scholarsheep!"

"In that case, she should go to India. There they’re inventing a new non-English language, and what’s more other literary standards to accredit any kind of imitation stuff, but what’s her gripe; why does she say the book’s great?"

"Says all real real, jes real life, even the bird-shit on statues jes real, like when you sit in park and the birds let drop on your head their mess."

"That’s all?"

"No, she says, this Indian fella writer easy to read. No bother with dictionaries like that no-good-for-nothing old Oxford English Dictionary with tens of thousands of words, all long words."

"And?"

"And she says, English writers all arrogant lah, jes boasting off they got great grammar."

"And?"

"And she says they should give this Indian the Nobel Prize for he can write better English than all the English put together."

"Good for him! That’ll be the "Kiss of Death"! And she should hurry up and go to Malgudi and live there and be their queen…Anyway, sometimes the Nobel Committee instead of giving a prize for literature gives a Charity Prize, and the unfortunate author, after an initial boost, is never heard of even before the advent of the succeeding generation, or rather his books get somehow lost in the go-downs where they either rot or are turned to pulp. The truth is, it’s a terrible embarrassment to the unlucky recipient of the prize, for he has to strive to live up to the high honour bestowed on him for reasons that are not quite clear to him in the first place."

" Malgondola? Where’s that?"

"Tamil-Nadu-Kannada…"

"Where?"

"Oh, never-mind." Quite frankly, I was beginning to believe Whacky was really whacked after this interchange, as everybody else thought in the hall. Why would he even bother to listen to such crap! "Well, really in the ne’er-ne’er-mind of the writer himself, there where she could get more than the bird-shit she’s looking for."

"She won’ go anywhere lah, I can guarantee that!"

"How?"

"She says, she jes wan’ connect with a future P.M." I got to admit I was myself so taken aback, I nearly lost my grip and fell down the basement-well where the rubbish bins lay wide open. You can’t blame me in all fairness with this sort of a conversation to listen to in the mornings. Lucky for me my claws were still sharp and curved. "See what I mean?" I certainly didn’t get what Justin was aiming at.

"What?"

"PM lah!" Justin’s face turned red for a moment; this was the only instant I’ve seen colour on his face. His voice too became rather gravelly. I quickly changed positions and perched myself on the railings right close to Justin for the noise from the square’s streets was making eavesdropping quite a nuisance for me. "Future prime minister lah!"

"What d’you mean?"

"She says, she won’go back – pass A-level or no – without connecting with a future PM."

"Why?"

"She says, she saw the greatest film in the world, you know, with that botha fella in the lead role. What name that film? O, yea! Some kind of KING and My EYE, and she says, nothing doing, she simply has to connect with a PM, if not a Sultan!"

"In that case, I can think of only one guy around here who’s being groomed for the task: ZAIN!"

"Oh, that’s out of the question. He’s connecting with other races already, so that post’s out!"

"Pooh! Looks like tough luck for her. Maybe… maybe… wait a minute. There’s still one way out. You know our bongos-playing prince from Pahang?"

"You mean, eerrr what’s his name? Yah, I know the guy."

"Well, if she connected with him, just think, he’d be king someday."

"But that’s for only five years. I donno if she be content with that."

"That or nothing. She could think of going to South Africa. There at least that Botha fella will… "

"Why?"

"I don’t know, maybe there she’ll be welcomed with wide-open arms."

"How can?"

"She said, she didn’t want to check dictionaries while reading English books?"

"Yah."

"So, that’s the place for her. There, they respect people like her with special preferences."

"O, come on! You think South Africans don’t read English books. I saw in the tele a Springbok chap reading an Almanac in English while gobbling down a leg of lamb."

"Did he have an Oxford English Dictionary in the other hand?"

"No, not as far as I can tell."

"There you are! That’s the place for her. For there she won’t be sakit-sakit all the time looking up every other word in the English language."

"You talking rot lah! I saw a South African reading a rugby magazine."

"Are you sure you saw him reading?"

"You meaning what?"

"Are you sure you saw him reading? Maybe he was just looking. Rugby magazines have lots of coloured pictures of hairy thighs, calves, torsos and butts. Maybe he just likes looking at pics like that."

" Ooooh, I donno, maybe you right, maybe you wrong. Donno, lah. I told her she can find you at dinner twice a week. So look out for her!"

"Thanks for warning me," said Whacky and entered the hostel for his free morning shave and wash-up.

***

In the meantime, things were hotting up for the MSU elections. All sorts of Malayans and Singaporeans who had never laid foot in the hostel suddenly kept calling those they knew in the premises. The news got around quicker than the committee in power thought it possible. Still, as Balachandran, the Jaffnese secretary of the outgoing committee was in the habit of saying, his tie-knot always unwrinkled on a clean well-ironed light-blue shirt under a black blazer, looking very much like the typical English public schoolboy he could not have wished not to be: "They can yackety-yack all they like, but they can’t do even this to change the present set-up!" The City & Guilds student in engineering brought his forefinger and thumb almost together in front of his face and eked out a toothy smile.

I could tell by the way Whacky’s appearance gradually changed (Ponna was saying he even managed to get a job and was sharing a room with Bala – that’s the late E. Balasubramaniam, a Seremban King George the Vth School boy who was to become an MSU committee member in the coming elections, a position which eventually catapulted him to the heights of Deputy Director-General of the P.W.D. in Malaysia) everybody was bracing up for a real tug-of-war between the factions of the States and the loose agglomerations of petty-friendships which characterised the growing anti-authoritarian ground movement.

Whacky’s strategy to topple the rigidly-armoured and entrenched MSU-committee was simple, at least, that’s what I thought listening to him expound his views on the subject to Singapore Brando in the presence of the always implacable Singaporean Henry Loo, who, while working as a typist-clerk at the Ministry of Transport, was assiduously working for a London School of Journalism diploma of sorts by correspondence. A grave enough character most of the time, he could at a jiffy turn into a slap-happy jovially warm person without, however, pushing the frontiers of familiarity to chumminess. Luckily for Whacky, Henry was almost always present at the encounter with most of the doubting lads and lasses; otherwise there was no saying what would have been the reaction of certain unaffiliated Singaporeans. The Malayan Forum boys had all become quite secretive. One felt they were plotting, but for what, no-one could guess. That they were playing a watching-game seemed possible. No-one however seriously doubted that if it came to the pinch, they would give their votes to Zain. Most, in any case, couldn’t understand the need to go to the polls. Usually, as in the previous years, some twenty or thirty students – including the outgoing committee members – voted themselves in, and everything was as it had been the preceding year. Now, to unsettle the muddy though becalmed waters of the hostel, where the only ripples were those caused by gossipers, stepped one obstinate and relentless "rabble-rouser", that is, in the words of the outgoing committee.

"Huh, So what? If they vote themselves in again, what’s the difference? Who’s going to get hurt?" Singapore-Brando, his eyes narrowing to a slit and a smirking-smile flirting with his lips and sleek chubby cheeks, volunteered his opinion. "This Indian talks too much. He’s always…" Sss-Brando, as he was familiarly known, brought his thumb and forefinger together in the shape of a bird’s beak and clicked them several times. Henry Loo lit up.

"Leave him alone, you. Can’t you see he’s doing what no-one so far dared to do?" His usually placid face turned red, his soft warm voice descended a couple of octaves down to that of a Paul Robeson’s opening Mississippi lines. "And if he did not keep talking, how d’you think things are going to change? Just like that: all by themselves?"

Singapore-Brando’s eyes narrowed, and a dark cloud descended on his face from then on. He maintained a frustrating but holy silence in Whacky’s company and at the meetings Whacky organised. D-Day was nearing. Springtime was at hand. Spirits were gradually aflame. Everybody was talking to everybody about the same subject: who was to replace Zain Azraai, the president. The argument was: since Whacky was the one wanting the change, he must probably fancy himself as the next union chief.

***

In the meantime, Whacky invited yet once again an English friend who had done his national service in Malaya to sample some "home-cooking" at the hall. M. Shankar had introduced them; the Rodger Scholar got to know the man from the days when he slept in dormitories of the Toc-H hostels. Whacky’s acquaintance with the man began with the cinema and later projected to other common literary interests as well. The colonial service being what it was, it knew everything there was to know about the men who went out to serve the Empire and especially about their activities in the field, so to speak. The gifted young man Whacky had invited was half-Jewish, and he trusted Whacky enough to bring along an uninvited guest: his African partner. They were seated at a separate table enjoying the meal of rice smeared in trout curry à la Malaisienne when Osborne appeared in the dining-hall on one of his lightning passing-through inspection tours. The presence of Whacky at a separate table with foreign friends was of course already communicated to the director by the substitute turbanless ticket-seller. This was normal procedure.

Osborne appeared very agitated and yet uptight when he approached the table at which Whacky entertained his friends.

"You," he pointed a finger at Michael. "I thought I told you, you may not visit this place without my permission?"

The clatter of knives and forks, the shuffling of feet and dragging of chairs, the unrestrained effeminate giggling of Malayans and Singaporeans came to an abrupt halt. Whacky was so taken by surprise he had hardly a notion of what was taking place. He swallowed what he was munching, took a gulp of water and looked at his friends who seemed so startled that their knives and forks in their hands remained suspended in the air while their mouths parted in a hung position. Whacky then looked at Osborne who hardly deigned to look at him. He had his head in the clouds, his tooth-brush moustache twitched and his hands went in and out of his blazer pockets massaging keys and/or coins. Michael Joseph, the ex-lieutenant who had served in the thickest of the Malayan jungles, twisted his long sturdy neck and winced. Then his wide-open eyes descended on Whacky. He hardly breathed.

"What right have you to address my guests in this manner?" Whacky yelled back on an impulse.

"I'm not addressing you, I'm addressing this man."

"Well, I've got news for you. These gentlemen are my guests, and if you have anything at all to say to them, you have to address me first."

" I'm the director of this hall and I decide who can and who can't come in here."

"You can go to hell with your decisions. I even forbid you to address me while I'm dining. If you have anything at all to say to me, you have to wait until I finish eating." Whacky looked at his friends, feeling quite outraged. "Please forgive me for this interference. I beg you to continue enjoying your meal if you can find it in you to do so."

Osborne stood around the table for a couple of minutes not knowing what to say. He had quite obviously lost face in the presence of other colonials whom he could in normal circumstances easily intimidate.

" I'll see you in my office when you have finished then," he said and beat a retreat.

Michael and his African friend looked at Whacky, their mouths still open and tried to force a smile, a tinkle in their eyes which was not there before Osborne made his appearance came surging up.

"Are you going to see him later about us?" said Michael.

" No fear. He can go to rot waiting for me."

" Sorry for the trouble we're causing you," said the tall handsome athletically-built African.

" What trouble? No trouble at all I assure you. I couldn't give a damn if I'm barred from this place. It'd be a blessing in disguise for I can never understand why I keep coming to this place, a place that's … like a…like a sort of ...Oh, never mind!" They laughed out loud. "A second helping?"

" If you are not coming back I think it'll be a good idea," said Michael, rising with his plate. He had been there before on a couple of occasions with Whacky.

K. K. Tan, the always neatly-attired Singaporean, his bright and cheery face picking up some shine every time he spoke, only to recede into instant unflappable reticence within a lean and diminutive build hardly concealed by a dark suit, chequered light-blue shirt and Sydney University tie and crest sewn on the outside coat pocket, dropped his knife in the plate and leaned back to listen. He was dining at a table with his back to Whacky.

"Hey, Whacky, well done, man." Whacky swivelled round and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to the African guest and excused himself. The dignified but tongue-tied African merely blinked, then looked down at his plate. He was quite obviously put out by the intrusion from the director. Perhaps he thought he was the cause.

"Hey, Keith, what’s up. You’re the guy I’m looking for."

"Why? Why? What’s up, man?"

"I heard somebody say you were the general secretary of the Sydney University Students Union or something like that."

"Yeah, that was ages ago. Now I’m incognito, retired lah!"

"Nothing doing, man, you’re going to be the next general secretary of the MSU."

"What d’you mean? I’m not standing for elections. Besides I’ve got my exams this year. Tough times lah!"

"Look, there’s no-one else with your experience. We need a seasoned non-partisan worker for the next committee."

"I heard about your campaigning and all that, but what I can’t make out is: who is challenging whom?"

"Just simple, man. The old committee thinks it can put anyone up and vote him or her in. Well, we feel we have to put an end to this sort of thing."

"Who’s WE?"

"We. We the boys and girls who want to see some non-partisan activity in the union. In fact, what we want is action. The old committees were there in name only."

"That means work, and I have little time for anything but my exams."

"Look, Keith, think it over. Your exams will be over soon, and then you can devote yourself to the cause."

He munched what he had in his mouth and sucked his teeth. "Okay, I’ll let you know."

"In any case, there’s no-one else. Remember that."

"Just a minute, Who’ll be assistant gener…sec.?"

"Jamaluddin." Jamaluddin was also diminutive like Tan but active, friendly, and a good socialiser across ethnic barriers. Very fair complexioned, he always entered any room with a smile and wished everybody present. He was a born campaigner. No problem getting him voted in.

"Oh, him. Okay, I’ll let you know soon. And who will be president?"

"Well, I’m afraid that’s a secret for the moment. That’s because we haven’t asked him yet. He’s up in Cambridge toiling in his clinical year."

"Is it…no…no. Can’t be him. Okay, okay. We’ll see each other soon?"

"Sure. There’s going to be a big campaign meeting. I still haven’t fixed a place for it. Will have to be in one of the big rooms in the first floor maybe, and you’ll have to come. You can meet the future president there."

"Okidoke! Will look forward to the meet."

***

After four months of hectic talking and accosting all sorts of Malayans and Singaporeans in an effort to get them interested in the next student elections, Whacky had at last arrived at a point when very probably the entire student population in the United Kingdom had heard of ME; yes, me, the Malaya Hall’s Official Resident Pet Cat! By the way, I didn’t say: "mascot"; that’s for cheap football fan clubs and women’s mah jong groups. I enjoyed an unwritten official status and presence which none objected to. The question on everybody’s lips was: Who then is going to be the next president? The truth is, everybody wondered if I had had to be the obvious choice, since no new name was put forward.

Quite frankly, I didn’t know too. Following Whacky all around didn’t give me an edge on the secret. Sure, I must have seen him talking to his nominee for president, but then he talked to some three or four hundred or probably a thousand, I can’t quite say. I didn’t keep count, and I never told anyone that I can write. So now you know.

The meeting was scheduled for a Wednesday after dinner at 8.15 p.m., and it was to take place in Henry Loo’s room on the first floor, appositely right above the conference hall where the balloting was supposed to be held. The boys started arriving in twos and threes, all yackety-yacketing all the way up. I had a hard time avoiding being trampled under iron-studded heels. Some thirty managed to stuff themselves in. Singapore Brando decided to affect a pose (I don’t know whether this was a Brando pose: it looked more like the Hindu God Krishna taking-a-nap-after-playing-with-the-milkmaids-pose or the Reclining Buddha statue pose. Incidentally, lemme put something right once and for all: lest someone think I don’t quite fancy Marlon Brando, just wipe that off your slate. If I wasn’t a cat, I’d have joined the Actors Studio just to tie his boot laces and put a shine on the cowhide with my tongue! ) Henry Loo asked everyone to be seated. Some wise guy said: "Where are the chairs?" and everybody laughed. I couldn’t see what was funny about that remark, so I didn’t smile. I just yawned showing my teeth. There were so many guys for want of something to do with their hands who began to stroke me up and down. I just couldn’t take that sort of sloppy behaviour, so I pretended to be a piece of China beside the lampshade on the bed chevet; you know the posture of a face on two long front legs with a tail coming round before the paws. Everybody left me alone.

It was around eight-twenty when somebody tried to close the door. From out of no-where some fifteen youths, all straight-faced and sullen, tried to squeeze in like in a rush-hour tube, so Henry signalled to the guy to keep the door open. The latecomers everybody recognised as hailing from the outgoing committee’s faction. Nobody seemed to know what to do, so Whacky began.

"First of all, let me thank you all for showing so much interest in the coming elections. This is in itself a matter for self-congratulation. Who would have thought, I mean, just a few weeks ago, who would’ve thought student elections could draw at such short notice so many of us together. Some of you, I know, have taken the trouble to come from out of London." Singapore-Brando, I noticed, was fuming. The thumb and forefinger of his right hand took the shape of a beak and was about to click when someone cried: "Come to the point."

"Take your time," said another. Whacky looked them both in the eye. He was standing near the door. The boys merely perched themselves on whatever they could find or sat down cross-legged on the floor which was in two levels, the higher near the bay windows with the bed, chevet, table and chairs. The rest stood with their backs against the walls. Whacky took a deep breath and resumed.

"I’m not going to harangue you. This is not an election speech. I’m not a candidate. I’ve asked all of you to come just so that you can meet – in my humble opinion – the man I think who is worthy of being the next president."

"So you’re not standing for elections?" said someone.

"That’s what I just told you. It has never been my intention to contest any elections whatsoever. I have never held any elective office and never want to." Whacky surveyed the boys who were by now quite intent and had their eyes fixed on him. "I’ve been talking to most of you just for one reason. Some months ago, I heard a couple of boys say that they can get anyone elected to any post. They even affirmed they could get our "Timmy" into the president’s place." I must say the pose I affected as a porcelain piece melted at one go. I was feeling quite embarrassed as a good many of those present turned to give me curious glances. Not that I couldn’t have done a better job than any past president, just that I didn’t see the need to work for a living as the Official Malaya Hall Cat!

"So it all boils down to just this. We are making an effort here to keep politics out of student affairs. We can’t have communal politics operating here as well. And what we need is an active committee willing to devote itself to student activities: cultural shows and events, sporting activities, intellectual gatherings and so on and so forth. As you all know, the present president is a foreign serviceman. This is nothing personal, mind you. You might not know, Zain and I are friends. We are from the same school and same neighbourhood back in K.L. Besides, wanting to have some one else elected in his place in no way diminishes his own capabilities or is a reflection on his intelligence or talents. He’s a fine fellow and most capable in his own way, but, unfortunately, he’s not the kind of person we need as a student leader. There are others, others more suited to the job. One such is the person I’m asking you to consider tonight. I’ve asked him to come along so that he can answer your questions, and if you feel satisfied he is the right man, then, please, don’t hesitate to vote him in."

One or two insisted on knowing who Whacky had in mind. "All in good time", he said.

Everybody seemed to cough and clear his throat all at the same time. Henry Loo turned to look at Singapore-Brando, and the latter didn’t lose the opportunity to click his thumb and forefinger several times to indicate Whacky was a chatterbox. Henry stunned him with a steely look. Sss-Brando dropped his hand and pursed his eye-lids.

Henry said: "Is he here?"

"Yes. Not here, but he should be waiting for me in the landing in a minute. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll go and look for him. He said he couldn’t be here before eight-thirty. He’s a medical student doing his clinical year in Cambridge."

"If he’s from Cambridge, how can he take charge of union here in London", charged a present committee member.

"He has promised to come down as often as possible, say every weekend and holiday, and besides, you know, what does it take? an hour or two only by train."

"What’s his name?" cried a voice emanating from where Singapore-Brando was maintaining his Krishna-Buddha reclining posture and maintaining it with great difficulty. Whacky had already passed the doorway and disappeared into the landing. With him gone, the meeting suddenly became vociferous. Everybody was talking at the same moment to someone or other next to him. After something like five or ten minutes, Whacky was back. He ushered in a very genial-looking Chinese gentleman that everybody, it seemed, recognised but somehow could not place a name to the familiar face. He was the guy who without being asked always gave a hand to anybody in need of help. He never asked for anything in return, nor did he want his name to be affixed to any task - such as, the décor of a play he would execute with ardour - he may have accomplished as a natural outcome of his being just there at the right time. His great asset: he never ever complained! In other words, he never blamed the tools! In short, he was the ultimate server!

"Gentlemen! I give you Hwang Peng Huan, hopefully the future president of the Malayan Students Union!"

The boys surveyed him inquisitorily.

[to be continued]