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

[continued]

ell, talk of the feline race being silent, slithery, and surreptitious - when confronted by a total non-stranger Malayans and Singaporeans all of a sudden became tongue-tied. First, they seemed to take the candidate for president with an overdose of suspicion, but then as the silence dragged on for a couple of minutes or possibly more [you’ll excuse me, I’m sure, for not carrying a wrist-watch strapped round my paw], I began to think - and I don’t think anyone there can contradict what I have to say - these lads after being stuffed with government-subsidised chow were perhaps a teeny-weeny bit shy! No-one so much as opened his mouth, though a good many raised a hand - which nervous act caught the attention of all present - only to scratch the fa ling lines on the sides of pursed mouths. Hwang held his ground a little to the fore of where Whacky gently thrust him while standing near the door. Hwang looked around and smiled and even tried - in whispered tones - to wish those who sat almost at his feet.

Of medium height, he was rather tubby to look at, at first glance, but that was due to his stocky torso which almost bulged awkwardly to the fore. Add to this, his not too strictly-tucked in white shirt smothered under a woollen Tartan coat and broad-based chequered tie, his general appearance gave off a sense of rotundity. And on top of that, chubby cheeks and a full forehead with sandy straight tousled long hair casually looking unkempt, and he certainly appeared a fatherly figure. A future comforting doctor on ward visit. Here then were his first patients to re-assure! Besides, if you looked long enough at him, you wondered whether he hadn’t a touch of the Aryan in his avuncular bearing and looks. I was just about to raise a paw out of sheer shyness to scratch my flanks when Whacky broke silence and everybody seemed thankfully relieved. I thought I heard him say: " What? the cat got your tongues, ah! " I swallowed with difficulty some fur on my tongue and nearly choked myself. All this cat-licking, you know, is not good for a cat’s guts! In actual fact, what Whacky said was:

"Okay, lads, what’s up? No-one to play the interrogator?" I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I thought he said: Inquisitor! Must be due to all that belching of curry odours (especially from where Singapore Brando lay stretched) I was subject to around the lampshade.

Then, a thin, tall three-piece suited and long-necked MSU committee member, with a natural skull-cap of short thick black curly hair for a crown whom no-one suspected was on the committee, started and startled everyone in the process:

"Eeeh, I want to know what your politics are er err were...errr is, was, never mind; in other words, where you stand?"

Hwang looked down at his legs first, like one who feared standing in a puddle, no doubt, and said: "I have no politics."

"Then you sit on fence, ah?"

"What fence?" Hwang retrieved himself and continued. "No. No fence nor have I jumped off or onto any wagon, I’m afraid. I stand on my own two legs."

The committee man, his fiery black pupils darting from side to side, appeared to look for support from his MSU clan, but no-one came to his rescue. Hwang held his ground and surveyed the potential voters. An eerie silence ensued. Tension was building up. Henry Loo sensed the distancing and said:

"Mr.Hwang, what do you propose to do for the students if you get elected?"

"I will do whatever is necessary to keep students active in the extra-curricular domain. For instance, obtain for them - excuse me, Gentlemen, please, for US - the necessary facilities whether here or elsewhere so that we can develop our intellectual and sporting careers. Then again, depending on the wishes of the majority, see to it that there is ample opportunity for inculcating information through film shows, concerts, plays, and the like, on the various facets of our communal and common cultures back home. And arrange for talks…"

"Okay, where you get money for this and for that you think?" Another committee man broke in abruptly.

"From membership dues and subventions from the MSD."

"That’s the gov’nmen money, so no politics, ah?"

"Even a government subvention is money from the citizen. In other words, the people’s money is channelled through a government agency."

"Eeeeh, that’s Alliance Gov’nmen money."

"The Alliance Government derives its authority from the people. Without the people, where is power to come from? A government without the backing of the people is a runaway rogue elephant."

"EEEEH, what you mean? Who you calling rogue?" "What you think you are?" "Who call you bigshot. Bigger than gov’nmen, ah?" - entered several raucous voices into the melée.

Things really looked like getting out of hand. It was quite obvious the outgoing committee was prepared to invoke the law en vigueur eight thousand miles away. You know, the colonially-enacted laws and all that for silencing those willing to speak up. Henry Loo pleaded:

"Gentlemen, let’s be fair, let’s get to know the man!" Out of nowhere, Singapore Brando who must have been dying from some need to shine cracked his duck! He supported himself with one bulging T-shirted arm pressed down against the floor, while with the other very Brando-and-slow-motion-like-Mark Antony he poked in the direction of the window.

"I say, why do you think you’ll be a better president than him, him (he pointed a free forearm in different directions, each time hitting a head)…and…him or ME? (He couldn’t resist the temptation of foisting himself into the foray. In fact, Whacky had already promised him a non-elective post with which he was quite satisfied since he wasn’t a bona fide student.)

"I don’t."

Someone said: "So, you think you’re not good enough?"

"I didn’t say that. I meant, I didn’t think I was better than anyone else."

"In that case, why do you want to be president?"

Whacky who appeared quite stunned by the way things were going, quickly stepped in.

He paused and surveyed the crowd without quite looking anyone in the eye. Singapore Brando fidgeted. Many coughed. The air seemed to settle after that. Whacky resumed, now more self-assuredly.

"The question is not who is better than whom; instead who in the present circumstances can serve the cause of student activity without incurring the displeasure of all factions, communities, and the rest you know. The office-holders of the outgoing committee are also individuals who may not be reproached for their potential ability. They are as good as one could want or expect of the elite of a nation. The question is simply one of individuals willing to give up their time and energy to serve others. Here, in the person of Mr. Hwang - as you all are aware - we have a server par excellence. And he wouldn’t contradict me if I said that he would not spare himself in wanting to serve the interests of all, irrespective of political colour or communal stance. In short, he is the right person for a difficult job. No need to belabour the point. Either ask him the right questions, and you’ll get the right answers, or simply make up your minds about him after this encounter. But, whatever you do, make sure that you turn up in two weeks to cast your votes. No use pretending we have attained to democracy now that we are an independent nation and not exercise our rights. That’s all I have to say, gentlemen!"

This broadside from Whacky seemed to allay all fears all of a sudden. The facial muscles of the outgoing committee members appeared to relax, now that there was an end to the matter, the task of having to challenge the choice of the candidate being beyond their capacity to cope with adequately. Besides, they were satisfied they were not excluded from the compliment: they too were part of the elite. But the real reason why such a change came upon the boys called on to play judge and/or inquisitor, it seemed to me, was that the mystery had been pricked. Now everybody knew who was to be the presidential candidate. Catharsis had set in during digestion time. Now it was television time: "The Esso-Sign is Happy Motoring" refrain could be heard coming from the TV-room. Now, it was a question of who could be there first to get an unobstructed view for the evening before: "Call at the Esso-Sign!" could ring out through the landing.

"Where you off to?" asked a bespectacled accounting student.

"Going to the loo, lah!" said the Maidavale Income Tax clerk with the scar on his forehead. He had positioned himself at the entrance, and from which place, he made several back-and-forth run-ups to the lift for the duration of the meeting every time he heard the lift doors open. Everybody, it seemed, had "loo" on his mind. Did he have "pub" instead of "loo" on his mind? I can’t honestly say.

The room began to empty itself.

"Okay, Gentlemen, if there are no more questions, we’ll call it a day," called out Whacky. Everybody there whether departing or about to maintained his posture in mid-movement while he spoke. "Don’t forget, Election Day is two weeks from now!"

Singapore Brando was the last to rise. It took him some time to unwind and stretch himself from his reclining posture. Caramba! Dash it! Did I say, the dumbcat that I am, Sss…Brando took up a Krishna-Buddha reclining posture?What’s the matter with me, lah? No, d’ya remember the scene under the shade of trees lying athwart a twisting- tongue of water piddling over a bed of pebbly stones?After Porfiro Diaz bolted and left the presidential palace in a mountain of a mess? That’s it, I got it! Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata were lying down head-to-head on a dry bank under an almost leafless tree deciding the fate of Ol’ Mejico, their ten-gallon sombreros for pillows while nubile señoritas prepared tortillas with chilli-con-carne. So, that’s why Singapore-Brando laid himself out on the floor while the fate of the MSU was at stake! Dash it! Darned me, how I wish I had a memory like Ganesha’s! Whacky, Henry Loo, Sss-Brando, and a couple of others, stayed back to run a post-mortem.

"What d’you think? Are you satisfied with the man?" asked Whacky.

"He’ll do." He held his breath. "He’s just fine!" said Henry Loo.

"… but there was no need to go into all that talk boosting him up," said Singapore Brando.

Henry Loo gave Sss-Brando a cold but frustrated look and shook his head in despair. Whacky simply ignored him. "I have now the entire list made up, but I have still to ask a couple of guys for their consent even if they have only given me a nod to affirm their agreement in principle."

"Who, for instance?" said Henry.

"Jamaluddin."

"Anyone else?"

"Not really. Yes, a couple of the Tamils… Nitchingam …Balasubramaniam …for the committee, but I don’t really think they’d object to seeing their names on the list."

"Hey, what makes you think this… this.. this bloke will agree to be president?" insisted Singapore-Brando.

"He was here, wasn’t he?" came the rejoinder from Whacky.

"That’s not enough," said Sss-Brando.

"Okay, let’s go for some coffee at the corner shop," said Henry, and the meeting broke up. On the way down, the group affected bonhomie, but nerves remained frayed, tension willingly suppressed. Singapore Brando and Whacky avoided each others’ eyes, and let the others pass in between them.

At the corner of Upper Berkeley Street just in front of the Lodge and the Mason's Arms, I saw the lights on in the red public telephone booth, so I left the coffee-group proceed without me for company, for what I saw in there was not worth ten cups of cheap ground-coffee. Our eternal law-student and Maidavale tax clerk was staring at himself in the mirror over the phone while his arms thrashed about him every three seconds or so. He was obviously giving his report to his secret boss up at the MSUnit on the meeting that had just transpired up at MH. The closeness to the pub and his red-stained eyes told me that a wobbly version of the meeting was being transmitted to official circles.

He had been a horse-racing reporter in the old days, that is, after the editors found him to be writing up drab fictitious tales as a general reporter. Then, fiction also took precedence in horse-racing: he got the winner in one race placed last and put up his own choice in the final results without even being present on the track in person. That was when the editors decided he would make a good lawyer and persuaded him to take up law studies in London. And they succeeded. Only, here at Malaya Hall, he was called upon to do some more "reporting" on the strength of his reporting career back home, and the reporting he was doing in that red booth must have taken on the proportions of Don Quixote's visions whenever the grand old man on his emaciated steed saw a windmill spinning in Castille! Just think, how could our world turn the way it does, if it wasn't for people like him. And d'you think there won’t be need for secret funds running into the trillions of billions having to be allocated out of the tax payers' coffers?

                                        ***

In the meantime, Whacky – according to Ponna – managed to get himself a cook’s job (well, I was going to say "chef " but you’re bound to ask me: "What’s his salary then?" and since it was only around £5.15 a week with board, of course, I thought I’d keep that under my whiskers) in a Catholic hostel nearby, and his appearances in Malaya Hall were restricted to the breaks he got between cooking, so much so that Singapore Brando began to swagger around as the "Chief of the Revolution". To prove his point to some of those who thought that, he decided to type out the list of candidates drawn up by Whacky and had it roneo-ed in the MSU office and then had it distributed in the hall. Just two days before election day, Jamaluddin was waiting for Whacky at the front door.

"Hey, what business you got putting my name on the list?"

"What list?" said Whacky.

"Don’t pretend you don’t know." He produced a well-folded thick light blue paper copy.

Whacky scrutinized the names on the list. They were what he had drawn up and had shown to Henry Loo and a few others. "I didn’t print….this…Wait a minute, who gave you this?"

"Everybody’s got a copy. I found this on a pile in the dining room."

"Okay, okay. Don’t get into a state about it. Remember, you did say you’d accept the assistant secretary’s post." He looked hard at Jamal. "You did confirm your acceptance to me, you remember the day we sat on the same table for dinner."

" Yeah, but not this. You don’t have to publicize the fact. Now everybody think I’m on your side. That not much good lah!"

"Don’t take it so bad. The important thing is to get voted in. Then who cares what anyone will think."

Jamaluddin thought it over for a while. Then, he shook his head and said: "Just say I’m not on the list."

"Be a realist: it’s too late. If you withdraw now, you might not get voted in at all."

"That’s not it. I’m a government scholarship holder, and this does not look good…"

"I understand all right. Once the elections are over, nobody will remember this sort of thing. I still don’t know who printed this. I’ll check and see, but it might be too late to draw up another list with a disclaimer…"

Jamal really looked worried. Whacky looked even more worried. Jamal simply moved away without even saying goodbye. By the time Whacky found out the little game Singapore Brando had played on him, there was nothing he could do. He just told the Ssss-of-a-B off but it was like pouring water on a…you guessed it!

                                        ***

Zain had his soft silk dull reddish muffler - pockmarked with tiny greenish flowers - on as he stared stock-still down from the platform. His black horn-rimmed glasses lay on a folder on the table in front of him. His black blazer with dazzling silver buttons and starched and ironed white shirt gave him an even graver air than usual. A stiff Bryl-creamed sickle of hair slided from his well-groomed chevelure and danced over the left temple. His face looked fresh. He had managed a siesta before administering the final honours of his reign. The low-ceilinged concert hall was packed with chairs drawn from the dining-room.

This final gathering of the old committee was as near as it came to a festive occasion. The boys emerged from all over the place. With them, their girls, all spruced up. Au pair girls from the Continent, mainly from Switzerland, Germany, and Austria, attracted unusual attention from the newcomers from home. Local girls rolled themselves out in the finest sarees, cheongsams, and sarong-kebayas and displayed their parents' hard-earned jewellery. Hair-dos with shiny broaches were equally in view.

Whacky was going around asking everyone he saw if he or she managed to get his or her MSU-membership card renewed. Most said: "Where? Who?" But it was too late. The outgoing treasurer had already wrapped up the accounts for the past year.Quite suddenly, it dawned on everybody that the number of newcomers to the hall was not really going to affect the voting either way. Whacky however had managed to get a certain number - probably running into the hundreds - to enroll over the past few months. Now it was time to see what could happen.

The treasurer rolled out his report. The secretary had his say. The boys and girls took turns to reserve their seats. Yet, somehow, the hall remained only half full. And when Zain began his farewell speech, from out of no-where everybody appeared, and the clatter of clicking leather shoes and the noise of grating chairs soon died down.

I'm not going to give you his speech word for word. As a matter of fact, I'm not even going to summarize it, for the simple reason I don't have a copy of his speech. The truth is, he gave it impromptu. What did he have to say? Nothing really. Just that he was honoured to have occupied the president's post and to have had the opportunity of dealing with all sorts of fellow Malaysians during the tenure of his office.

A certain Singh from Singapore whispered in somebody's ear at that time: "So, he's not happy about dealing with Singaporeans!"

To that, a certain Malaysian said: "That's because Singaporeans officially haven't come into being!"

"Oh!" said the Singh. And, as an afterthought, added: "Then, I don't exist, ah?"

"That's right," said the Malaysian coolly and looked him up and down and turned away.

"Now, as you're all aware, we are going to hold the elections for the next committee and office-bearers in a while, but before we do so" continued Zain in his best Oxford voice - the "before" becoming in the event "bafore" - "I'd like to remind all those present that only membership card-holders will be allowed into the polling booth upstairs in the conference and meeting hall, and for those who are first-time visitors to the hall, for your information that's on the ground floor of the other entrance."

His speech was interrupted temporarily as good many turned to ask where that was. Zain cleared his throat and said:

" That's on the ground floor next to the library."

"Where's that?" cried a few. And the meeting took some time before it settled down again.

"Now, there's just one last piece of business I have to accomplish before stepping down," quoth Zain. Everybody was apprehensive as he took his time about it. "The invigilators," he said. "We have to have three invigilators to supervise the voting procedure and to count up the votes cast. I'll take nominations for the three invigilators right now." And as if everything was already planned, three gentlemen stood up, one after another, and proposed the following names: Dr. Lee Suan Yew, Mr. Phillip Williams, and Mr. Anuar. [The latter was Miss Hedwig Aroozoo's husband, the Hedwig who headed the Singapore Raffles Library later, after being the university librarian in those days.]

"Any other nominations?" said Zain and looked blandly at the audience at his feet.

"WHACKY" said a voice but I could not make out from where it rose. Zain came to attention and noted it down. He waited a minute or two for more nominations, and then called for a show of hands for each name as office-bearers walked up and down the aisles toting up the count. Then, Zain read out the number of votes cast for each name. Suan Yew and Phillip had each something in the region of eighty votes. Anuar and Whacky exactly sixty-nine! Murmurs quickly rose and fell as heads turned to look at Whacky. Zain looked triumphant.

"As there's a tie in the vote for the third invigilator, I can either call for a second ballot or simply exercise my right as President and presiding Chairman of this meeting and cast my vote."

A hush as loud as hell descended on the hall.

"I cast my vote for Whacky," he said. And before anyone could resume breathing, "I declare this meeting closed." He stepped down and moved with grace and disappeared from the scene.

Well, I’ll be damned! I never thought the man really had it in him! I could hear so many fellas say, "A real gentleman this!" "What a guy!" said another. "Here is Whacky conducting a revolution to have him deposed and he votes for him." I must say I was touched by the gesture. But then I thought for a while about it, and I said to myself: "Isn't this lad after all a born politician?" This same gesture could have ensured his victory in the elections!

                                        ***

Somehow the voting got going between tea-time and dinner-time. The always-bolted conference hall next to the library was open for business. A table and chairs making up an election bureau, around which gathered the old committee, was set up under the notice-board, next to the lift. Now, it was the turn of the invigilators to take charge. Did I say: invigilators – wrong. Invigilator was closer to the truth. Dr. Lee Suan Yew appointed himself the authority on election procedure. It probably runs in the blood. Phillip Williams was too docile to oppose the assumption. Whacky stood apart and observed. After all, he had never held any kind of office, and this was his first role in an election.

Voters were checked for their MSU membership cards. Many were turned away. Their protestations resounded in the corridors. The old committee members eyes registered conniving pleasure.

Those who passed the test were allowed inside to cast their votes in one or the other of two ballot boxes: one for Zain’s group and the other for Whacky’s.

"Let’s empty the boxes and get this over with," he said, and proceeded to upturn and extract the cast ballot sheets. Phillip and Whacky did likewise with the other box. "Count up the votes for each name and let me have it." I could sense Whacky remonstrating against the tone of the man, but he held his silence. Phillip was his usual un-protesting self.

Suan Yew was toting up the numbers on an upturned box while being seated on a low chair. The other two stood watching. The good doctor showed that he had actually anticipated the calculating machine in his very person. He was calling out the totals for everyone almost every minute.

"Alright? I think that’s about all there is. Okay? We can now announce the results."

"NO!" said Whacky firmly. "I don’t agree with your totals."

There was a grim silence as Suan Yew looked up at Whacky. Then, he asked Phillip, "Do you feel the same way?" Phillip merely winced. Suan Yew’s face turned colour. "Okay, you want to count it all over again, go ahead," he said.

The count began all over again. The new totals did not tally with the first count. Suan Yew seemed inordinately put out by the new totals. His manner changed. He was even apologetic.

"Alright, then, if you two agree with the new count, sign here, and we’ll announce the results," said the good doctor.

Outside, a crowd had gathered. The Maidavale tax clerk was holding a conference of sorts with some members of the old committee. Singapore Brando stood still beside Henry Loo, an unusual posture for him, probably because of the tension and expectation, making him forget his role model. Zain was nowhere in sight.

Dr. Lee Suan Yew stuck the paper containing the results of the voting in the notice board. Not a squeak rose from the old committee group. The good doctor appeared to be in a hurry. He didn’t even say "goodbye" to the other invigilators.

[to be continued]