In his school days at the V.I. from 1952 to 1958, Dato' M. Shanmughalingam was hyperactive in the debating, literary and drama fields. He was a member of the very successful school debating team and chairman of the Senior Literary and Debating Society. He topped the country in the 1956 Sixth Form Entrance Exam with 96% marks. He was the secretary and, later, joint editor of the Seladang, steering the V.I. newspaper through one of its most vibrant periods. He was in the first group of Victorians in 1958 to be awarded the coveted "Club 21" badge for meritorious service to the school.
Shan holds an Honours degree from the University of Malaya, a Masters from Harvard and a Doctorate from Oxford University. At Harvard he graduated first in class with Grade A in all eight subjects and was admitted to the Ph.D. programme directly without formal application. At Oxford he won the Getrude Hartley Memorial prize for Poetry and a graduate scholarship from Balliol College and the second prize in the Short Story competition judged by the novelist, Iris Murdoch and John Bayley, Prof. of Literature, and sponsored by ISIS, Oxford University and The Observer.
Shan is presently the Managing Director of Trilogic Sdn Bhd, an investment holding and consultancy company. He is also a Director of Mahkota Technologies, of Delloyd Ventures Bhd, of Malaysian International Merchant Bankers, of MIMB Aberdeen Asset Management Sdn Bhd, of Asli-Jardine insurance brokers, IT Partners (Mal) Sdn Bhd and GIS Group Sdn Bhd (Brunei). He sits on various panels, including the Board of Selectors, Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University; the international/ national advisory panels to the Asian Strategy and Leadership Institute (ASLI) and to the Malaysian Institute of Economic Research (MIER); the Executive Committee of MIMB; the Committee of the Malaysia Administrative and Diplomatic Service Alumni Association; and the Board of the VIOBA Foundation. He is also chairman of the Scholarship Committee of the latter. He served at the Treasury, Ministry of Finance from 1962 to 1978, his last post being Deputy Secretary (Economic), and at Petronas from 1979 to 1991, rising to the position of General Manager. He is also a Fellow of the Economic Development Institute, World Bank, Washington DC.
Shan's literary publications include poems and short stories in Commonwealth Anthologies (London) international anthologies (Singapore), in universities (Harvard, Malaya, Oxford and Singapore) and in national literary journals. He is co-editor of an anthology of Malaysian poetry.
He was an interviewer/commentator on international and current affairs, and film critic on Malaysian television, and radio and a member of the advisory panels to the leading national literary and cultural journals and the informal advisory panel to TV3. He was invited to be Session Chairman, Commonwealth Writers Seminar for Papers on literature from Jamaica to New Zealand in Sept 1998. He has been invited to read his poems and short stories at several national and international readings. The latest was at the Maybank series led by the national poet, Dato Dr Usman Awang with the Deputy Prime Minister in April 1999.
Shan's works have been the subject of theses in universities in Malaysia and Germany and of a movie to be made in New Zealand. A video recording of his performance poetry with thirteen of his own poems has just been made for an Autralian website on international poets.
He is also an avid bird watcher (the feathered kind).
Address: 77 Jalan Setiabakti, Bukit Damansara, 50490 Kuala Lumpur, MalaysiaEmail: drshantri@gmail.com
Birthday
"I'm going to have a baby," Mrs Santha Ganapragasm confided to her husband.
"Afterwards, afterwards, let me finish hearing the commentary, lah. West Indies are four wickets down already," the Lord and Master of the house ordered absentmindedly; "Vie can't you wait for a little while, ah?"
Just then someone began to chant about some free gift offer or perhaps it was a pop song, Santha was not sure. Anyway she retreated to her housework. She would wait till the West Indies lost all their wickets.
Settling among her plates, her pots and her pans Mrs. Ganapragasm attempted to hum a Hindi tune to herself. She was much too happy to let Ganam or his cricketing Gods upset her.
I hope she's going to be a girl. She will stay at home with me all the time instead of roaming about like all these boys in neighbourhood. A little more chilli powder for the fish curry. Girls are reliable. They listen to their parents but not boys. You feed them, bring them up, and educate them. Once they start working they scoot off with some Chinese or Eurasian woman. How very treacherous of them. I think I'll call my little girl Nithi. She will have long wavy hair like her grandmother. And she will play the violin. Mm, the brinjals are cooked. It's almost eight-thirty and Ganam will be roaring for his dinner. I think I'll tell him about our little girl during dinner.
"I say I'm getting gastritis," Ganam announced. "Vat, vat, curries have you made? You have been in the kitchen since I came from the office."
Now it was the missus' turn to ignore him in this duet of monologues. She laid the table while Ganam measured the floor with his feet, chewing on his cheroot.
The first item on the menu was white rice stripped of all its vitamins (and consequently more expensive). There were also mashed brinjals and lady's fingers. Ganam had eyes only for the fish curry. Reaching out for his regular dose of sour milk Ganam launched himself onto the food.
While Ganam's fingers wallowed into his plate Santha decided to repeat her secret. Ladies secrets like murder will out.
"You know what Ganam I'm going to have a b-baby."
"Vat - a baby! Very good idea Santha." As if Santha had just decided to have one and he was in favour too. Slowly the words seeped into his skull. "I say, vie vie didn't you tell me as soon as I cam home, ah! You mustn't keep things to yourself like this you know."
Santha smiled to herself. Ganam was not so bad without his cricket, his politics or his newspapers. Not oozing with gallantry but nevertheless very attentive .............
"Can I have the day off Inche?" Ganapragasm asked his boss. "My oif is delivering her baby today."
"Sure," Inche Nik grinned. "I hope you get a boy. But girl also not so bad. We need someone to look after us when we retire."
By the time Ganam reached the hospital he could see the rest of his troupe performing a war dance with their jaws. Towering above the crowd, totem-like but gesticulating and interrupting everyone else was his father-in-law, Arumugam.
"That fellow is just coming, lah. Oi, thambi, hurry up!"
Ganam responded to the call of the old buffalo immersing himself among Mr. Arumugam's subjects.
Santha was in the operating theatre.
"It's going to be Caesarian," a nurse hailed Mr. Arumugam. "But not to worry."
"Macduff was born that way," ejaculated Arul.
"Nor!" corrected his father "It was Alexander the Great".
"I'm sure it'll be a boy!" Mr. Arumugam dispensed with all controversy. "He will grow up to be a doctor or an engineer."
"He must get at least a B.Sc." pronounced Mrs. Muthuthambi. "My daughter is very stubborn. Insisted on doing Arts. Her father is very disappointed with her. What to do. Our children think they know better than us."
"For a boy to do Arts is a complete an utter waste of time. Don't you think, Master?" quizzed Mrs. Arasu.
"You're completely right," nodded the local Mathematics master. "Arts is for all those morons who cannot understand Science.
Ganam wished they would stop jabbering but he knew better than to say that. Santha had been feeling a little weak for the past few days but of course the obstetrician knew best. If he thought Santha could take it that was all there was to it. As long as Santha was alright and the child was healthy he did not give a damn if it was a boy or a girl.
"It's a boy!" trumpeted Mr Arumugam.
"A boy, boy," chorused the rest. "Mrs. Pragasm is feeling fine," whispered a nurse giving Ganam a broad grin. Santha and the baby were alright. Was he relieved!
"His nose is just like his mother's," said one.
"He has got his grandmother's eye alright," whispered another.
"He's even fairer than my daughter," admitted Mrs Sinnappu.
"Thirty years I've been in Government Service and this is the healthiest baby I've seen," came Mr. Arumugam's verdict. You would have thought he was some Government midwife or other.
"You see his eyes ... his nose, mouth, his whole face is exactly like his mother's; boys tend to take after the mother. I read this in a magazine the other day in the U.S.I.S. Library. I read a lot you know" gloated Sinniah, anxious to show he was too good for his Division 3 post in the government. At a tea party for Muthurajah's daughter's wedding Sinniah had reported that the other office fellows were boot licking his boss but he was going to be promoted on merit alone.
Mr. Arumugam felt compelled to let his fans hear his voice again.
"I tell you my grandson will not only be a doctor, he'll be a specialist. One look at his face and I know. Just like my daughter, Santha, very clever this boy, ah? I think he should be a heart specialist. My oif has been suffering from heart trouble since the Japanese occupation. I would have taken up medicine but my father couldn't afford to send me to college."
"The bugger failed his Standard Eight, lah. Who's he trying to bluff?" whispered little Arul to his cheap matinee companion Retnam.
"I expected Santha to get a baby boy. She's such a nice homely girl. She really deserves a son," said one. Obviously those with daughters were either not nice or not homely, reflected Ganam. He remembered Santha wishing she could have a girl. She would learn to play the violin. They would both go to hear her play at concerts and perhaps over Radio Malaysia too. They would both sit at the front row as they did at the cinema with their eyes riveted to the violin.
Mrs. Sinnadurai was extolling the virtues of women who produced sons. In her past life Mrs. Ganam must have been priest or very religious person. The baby was the exact duplicate of Mrs. Ganam. Anyone who had seen Mrs. Ganam need not even see the baby.
Poor Ganam. Nobody bothered about a mere postal clerk. Mr. and Mrs. Arumugam had donated their daughter to him because he did not smoke or drink. Why, he did not even play cards. They had many daughters and postal clerks were not supposed to request much in the form of dowry anyway.
"Can I see you a minute Mr. .......er, Kana …Kanapra"
"Ganapragasm"
"Well can I have a word with you," inquired the Sister on duty.
"Sure".
"I'm afraid there's been a terrible mistake. I'm really sorry."
"What do you mean?"
"We've got mixed up with the babies. Your baby is in Cot No. 13. Can you see a little girl in the pink cot. That's your baby."
The silence was sudden.
From a Lighthouse
(for E.T.H.)
I'm a lighthouseA lighthouse that's
Fused.
I'm a dark house
A was, a has been, an also
Shone.
I'm a heavy house
Broad crow feet roots and thin
Waist.
I'm a louse house
A sorry, excuse me, I beg your pardon
Mouse.
I'm a jilt edged security house
An unsociable, stubborn, stay put
House.
I'm a no house
No place in the sea house
Functionless.
FIVE POEMS
(Winner of the 1978 Gertrude Hartley Poetry Prize)
Civil Scream
I am directed toI am directed from
Am directed herein
Am directed therein
I remain your obedient servant
Your obedient servus
Servant, server of time
$000 plus Cola plus housing allowance.
Plus Seniority allowance
Plus Mediocrity allowance
Allowance, allowance, allowance!
Timescale, Superscale
Hail, Hail, Hail
Not with a bang but with a Yes Sir.
Auntie Climax
Distant glances hintOf cramped pages in my diary
Casual winks glint
With unscheduled toasts in a hurry
Rendezvous by lottery
Only the exits are rigged
Portrait pose but eyes jittery
Excuse to stay each one out fibbed
Mutual friend breaks thro'
'I can see you haven't met
Come and say hello to
Missus. . .'
Weak smile of defeat
Weak end of moral inhibitions and heat.
Understanding Us
The strumpet sidles byI'm so innocent, so pure
I'm brand new
We confess
This is all Sanskrit to us
But we understand
The strumpet sidles by
He's so innocent, so pure
He's brand new
We confess
We've heard it all before
And we all understand
The strumpet sidles by
Unruffled by yesterdays'
Eternal loves
We confess
We merely want our money back
Do try and understand
At Home from Abroad
The Asian who could not care'Tuppence'
Is referring
To his unsophisticated cousin
Who's neither been abroad
Nor felt at home
In a lounge suit.
He can tell you the British
Election results county by county
But you'll have to tell him
That Bangkok is in Thailand and that
Algiers is nearer to us than
The Big Ben.
The pure pale wife, the nasal accent, and
The Course in Interior Decoration are designed for
Exterior Display
The loud reminiscence of
Santa Claus in the snow is more than a
Seasonal Greeting in the tropics.
And so from Western rags to
Accidental riches
From richly earned native naïveté
To accidental success
Of the have beens
(to England and the States)
The foreign expert who echoes
What the natives have been chanting
For years only to see it
Eagerly accepted and
Faithfully implemented by the Natives.
And so we gather round
Hearing speeches by
Clowns with woollen mufflers and dark glasses
(Ninety degrees in the shade)
About Australians who should know better
Than to consider themselves Europeans in Asia.
Interludes
A fractured kittenSnuggled
Into my world
Whirlwind
A hideous inflated cat
Sneaked out of my cage
Monsoon
PARTIES
As when you stick on a stale shirt
After a bath
Or renew a library book
Unread
You meet at the same party
Each time
The hellos and the
Howdoyoudoes
Backslapping and
The stabbing
You think you want to yell
But you've only just been
Introduced
AT BESERAH
Smiles unpaid forNot as in the adverts
Wholesome greetings
Midst the emptiness of Ramadan
The breeze giggles through nets
Relaxing on the laurels of the last catch
The China Sea regularly spurned
Lashes back at the frigid beach
Naïve mermen spawn
Children and poverty
On the periphery of octopus middlemen
Are Malthus and Cooperatives two kinds of fish?
No diesel engine, nylon nets
No cancer, gastric ulcer
No overdrafts for Savings Bank accounts
No telephone. Sometimes we see a postman
Parcel civilisation to Beserah
By express post or cable
Exile delinquent teachers and push
Western leftovers East
Little shrimp on the Malayan coast
In the capital they have a whale of a time
But we grow up in time for the elections
Then deep freeze while ballot boxes rust
Turtles laying eggs, a rare sight
Air conditioned hotels, Yankee Go East
Beach of Passionate Love. The kids ask
Do people live there too?
Shall we, lazy natives barter
Our fishes for fish tails on Cadillacs
Or hang on unenlightened, untutored, unburdened
To our Nirvana
What price your brand of progress?
Jasmine Seller by the Sungei Gombak
(Penjual Bunga Melor di Tepi Sungai Gombak)
Had arranged to meet The Sungei Klang
To exchange
Effluent before the Affluent
New pollutants from representatives
Of all the communities
And old-fashioned mud
Many came to trade and
Some to pray or to stare
Beside the Stock Exchange
The Commodity Exchange, the Rubber Exchange
The Money Exchange and the Maya Exchange
Peri amma conducted her
Flower Exchange
At the Maya Exchange there were
New Maya for old two Maya for one
My mirage is better than your illusion,
Stocks are held up never shared
Prepare to meet thy Broker.
The Flower Exchange bent its stalks to none
The time it took the Earth
To rotate itself or to circle the sun
These gyrations are gymnastic joys
Not maturity periods for loans
Or fixed leases on lives
Her jasmines were age blind
Old was young and young was old
They mended tired souls born again in young bodies
Fresh souls caught in worn skins
This was no fadist
Flower power turned sour
Or gone to pot
Nor retired spirit in force faded jeans
Flowers without formula neither plastic nor paper
Was this a new cry from the East and the South
An encounter of the Third World Kind
A rejuvenation of timeless philosophies and faiths
Or just Mother Earth shaking her head and flexing her heart
Seller at Money River Plaza
(Penjual di Plaza Sungai Wang)
Anything you wanWe sell
You dowan
Also can
We sell some more
Better still!
What for
You dowan?
So stupid one
Let other
People buy
Everthing-ah!
Your simply bring
Your Money
Take home back
Your money
Waste time
Simply stare stare
How many window
Window you can buy
Like that
Next time
Better don come!
Pertemuan Rohani
Seorang Malaysia bertemu rohMeminta 3 cita
Cita tak boleh
Aku bukan pari-pari
3 soalan boleh
Soalan Soalan-nya
Kau kaum apa
Kau makan apa
Bagi nombor 4 ekor
Spiritual Encounter
A Malaysian meets a ghostAsks for 3 wishes
No wishes I am not a fairy
Only 3 questions
The questions
What race are you
What food you eat
What number for 4 digit
Kuala Lumpur
People Just Like Us
One view in the WestIn Africa tribesmen
Slaughter indiscriminately
But in Eastern Europe
There is a tragedy involving
People just like us
In Asia napalm or
The atomic bomb were
Alright for Asians
But atrocities anywhere are
A threat to mankind everywhere
All are people. Just like us.
Orang Macam Kita
Satu pandangan dari BaratDi Afrika orang liar
Membunuh melulu
Tapi di Eropah Timur
Tragedi melibatkan
Orang macam kita
Di Asia napalm
Atau Bom atom
Untuk orang Asia ta apa
Namun keganasan di mana mana
Mengancam manusia merata rata
Semua-nya orang. Macam kita.
Spring in London:
Sparrow, Squirrel and Malaysian SparrowWelcoming spring and man
In that order into Russel Square
Cleaning out our paper plate of
Baked beans and tomato sauce
Immersing itself for a spring
Bath in man's muddy puddle
Squirrel
Squatting without license
Close to the bench we were
Sitting on in Hyde Park
Dining on his meal while
We were eating ours
His also carried out
From the same establishment chain
As our pancakes - his
French fries from McDonalds
Sparrow, squirrel and Malaysians
Dining together in the Park
May 4, 1995
At Cherating
Three fourths of the earthIs water
Yet the inhabitants of
Part of the balance
Control all
Eat the fish
Drink the water
Pollute the beaches
After a long journey
From the city
To the clear
Gentle sand
Of a secluded beach
Wind in your beard
Twilight on the horizon
Paradise on earth
Is not a dream
Cherating, Pahang
Digital Century
We saw watches go digitalWhat if clocks went ditto
The Big Ben silenced into digital
Look no hands! Feet of clay?
Would church bells follow suit
Ambulances trail fire engines to
Join this new conspiracy of silence
Ask not for whom the bell tolls
For it will not. Will man follow too
Surrender bells, hands, feet
As the Century turns, to be a digit
Himself, without limbs, without sound
Without chime, without rhyme
A silent digit marking time marching
Into the distant digital day
May 3, 1995
Heir Conditioning
Grand dad did you breatheBefore air cons were invented
Wasn't it hard staying
Alive without modern inventions
Gandma weren't you flustered
As you fluttered with paper fans
Could you communicate before
Faxes and long distance calls
Became basic necessities?
Grand child we lived
Before your age because
Of our ignorance,
We did not know
Pollution, stress, traffic jams
Destruction of forests, streams and hills
We feared God and nature
Now nature fears you and
Money is your new God
May 4, 1995
Peace
Several millionsTrooped out to
Celebrate VE for
Victory in Europe Day
From the expanse of Hyde Park
All the way to
Their TV sets
With several hours
Of nostalgic sounds and
Heads of State in hordes.
A few hundred mere
Heads huddled together
Standing in total silence
For one full hour
In little Tavistock Square
To commemorate all those
Men and women who have
Established and are maintaining
The right to refuse to kill
Their PE for Peace on Earth Day
Two world wars
Holocausts and Hiroshima
Solved little for so high a price
The time is overdue for
An international treaty for
The proliferation of
Conscientious objectors to
Military disservice and
Volunteers for peace service
For the future of our earth
Tavistock Square, London
High Rise (for Nirm)
In the capitalsOf the old industrial world
Natural parks and gardens
Breathe fresh air into
The lungs of their cities
Our developing villages know
Growth into tall towns and
Even higher cities only by
Shrinking our gardens and
Jungles into concrete. Our
Angsana to highways, high
Rises and high hopes
Can we develop so that
More means better instead of worse
In quality and equality of life?
May 5, 1995
Art Historian
Walking on a spring late eveningThrough the parks and gardens
Past the British Museum and the
University to a vegetarian restaurant
Surrounded by art and classical music
Owned and run by a poet
Arguing the pros and cons of
The pragmatism of the East Asian
The idealism of the South Asian
Argument for the sake of argument
Democracy before development
Sensitive, gentle and erudite
Several research and conference
Papers no time for the cinema
Makes time for a committed
Artist and even a dilettante poet
Then fades gently into the spring night
May 5, 1995
Seat of Self Learning
Sitting in the parkOn a wooden bench
Seat of self learning
Introspection, reflection
Meditation
Kinships uncomplicated
With birds
Leaves, petals
Blades of grass
Statues for peace
Where have I been
All these decades
Scheduled, treadmilled
Programmed preoccupied
Time only for
Priorities, major
Corporate objectives
Key Targets
More and more
Of what?
No time to stare
At my inner self
May 6, 1993
For more worse or both better?
"Mrs Kandiah who
More worse ah
Your husbuurn
Or my one?"
"Puan Salmah both
Also betterr
Without their
Backside behind
Us how we
Can grumble
Everyday in
The market?"
"Complain, complain
What for
Mrs Kandiah?
One day
They divorce
Us only.
By SMS
Some more"
"You ah must
Be a good
Cooker. Simply
Cook extra
Hot hot
Curry. Then sure
They raash
Back home"
NAMING NAMES
Kandiah was one in a million. Certainly at least one in a thousand, if one wanted to be fastidious about decimal places. His father had bestowed on him the same name that a few hundred other sires had granted their offspring.
This proliferation of Kandiahs (and) Kandayahs, Kandasamys (and) Kanagalingams, Kanagaratnams, Kanagasabais and Kanagupeiars was to become the source of much creative activity in the community. You could not go beyond uttering any one of these names, let alone complete a sentence about him, without half a dozen members of the community pouncing on you with 'Which Kandiah?' or 'Whose Kanagaratnam? Sinnappu's son? Pariappu's nephew or Sinappah's drunken son-in-law?'
If your listener wanted to be helpful, which temptation was rarely resisted, he would volunteer with 'You mean Railways Kandiah,' or 'You must be meaning PWD Kandiah' if the said gentlemen had retired, or 'JKR Kandiah' if he was still active as a builder of roads, the last word on the maintenance of government quarters or the first word on his chief clerk's lips.
Such voluntary assistance in identifying the right Kandiah was always inadequate. There was more than one JKR Kandiah and half a dozen PWD Kandiahs on the loose.
Since they were mere civilians, rank and serial numbers were out of the question. People carried their identity cards with them but it was enough trouble remembering their own. So 'You mean Kandiah IC No. 3318840, Kandiah IC No. 8813340 or the Kandiah 4418830?' would be most unhelpful.
Since they were not accustomed to retaining surnames together with their given names, 'You mean Kandiah Bottomley or Kandiah Topmann,' would not have been of much help either. There were no surnames to live up to or to live down. The historian's alternative of 'It was Kandiah the Eighth who had only one wife all his life, Kandiah the Ninth who had none or Kandiah the Fifth who had never led his country into battle' was not available either.
There were just too many Houses of Kandiah. The geographer's alternative of 'You mean Kandiah of the Valley?' or 'You must be meaning Riverside Kandiah,' was not closer to a solution. Most of the Kandiahs were found huddled in towns. They could not be distinguished by contours or compasses.
The educationist's approach epitomised by the headmaster's query 'Kandiah from Form Five A or the Kandiah from Form Five D class' did not advance the subject any further. There were as many in the D now as there had been in the A class then.
The first edition Kandiahs were unanimous in their reception of the reprints.
'They are all like Mr Xerox. They never do anything original,' complained one.
'Every Tom, Dick and Harry wants to call himself Kandiah,' chorused another.
'Surely our people can tell the difference between the real McCoy Kandiahs and the roadside ones,' said a third.
'Which stupid fool cannot tell the difference between a King Kandiah and the garden variety,' asked another Kandiah who claimed to have suffocated a python or two in his youth.
'How can you compare an original Mona Lisa with a small, postcard Mona Lisa sold on the roadside,' snorted another pioneering Kandiah whose acquaintance with art was at an even more pioneering stage. The only artists he had been introduced to by his British expatriate teacher were Constable and Turner. He could not say for certain which one of his 'dynamic duo' was responsible for the Mona Lisa.
'You mean an original Made in England Kandiah should stay in the same room as a local product?' As rooms now were only a fraction out of those in the old PWD government quarters the indignities were enhanced.
'If the Americans and the Russians can have a treaty for the non-proliferation of nuclear weapons why can't we have one for the non-proliferation of Kandiahs,' queried one of the community's many international affairs specialists. 'How can we rely on these small boys to handle such a highly sophisticated name without getting into trouble?'
'A law should be passed to say that anyone who was named Kandiah after the War should be renamed by any lesser name.' From which Kandiah the controversy extended to which War and even which point of the said War. No sooner had the Kandiahs drawn the line for their war babies born at the end of the Second World War leaving the Korean boom offspring out, when another cluster of Kandiahs blanked out any heirs born after Pearl Harbour.
'These journalist Kandiahs think only of today. My son was born before the Japanese even heard of Pearl Harbour, jewel harbour or any other harbour. Any Kandiah born after World War I should be banished from this country to make his name elsewhere - not just rest on my father's laurels.'
Prof Kandiah did his usual erudite summing up, 'This whole mess comes from too much freedom. How else can you explain this free for all, this chaos where the riff raff can grab names from our illustrious families - and in broad daylight too. There is nothing a man can call his own. Not even the name his own father gave him. If a thief picks your pocket he can be arrested. If he counterfeits money he can be jailed. If he sells imitation goods his shop gets raided. The state and the law are extremely good at catching small boys and giving out parking tickets. But anyone is free to plunder, murder and rape our names. What we need is a central planning commission for the naming of names. That may be radical for our Parkinson's Law committees who specialise in trivia like GNP, GDP and Gee, Gee, Gee. At least a Registrar of Individual Names is an absolute necessity. Imagine the chaos to our free enterprise system if every corner shop called itself General Motors and any scoundrel could set up a bank and name it the Bank of England.'
'Vat is all this vailing about, ah? Imitation is the highest form of flattery. The more Kandiahs there are the greater the tribute to the original Kandiah. Can a roadside artist sell as many reprints as Picasso? The more the merrier. Some of my Chinese friends kill themselves and their wives in the process to make sure they produce a son to carry on the family surname. We are getting Kandiahs not just at cheap sale prices but for free. And not just while stocks last but in perpetuity. Kandiahs of the world go forth and multiply. Don't be divided by doubt and dissension. As in the insurance business your target for this month should be a million. Surely we can do better than the humble rabbit with just his carrots.'
'Very clever my mass-produced Kandiahs. And how do we tell between Kandiah the distinguished and Kandiah the dumb? Which is the Hamlet and which is the drainsweeper of Denmark?'
The community descended into darkness. Did Kandiah x equal Kandiah y? Wasn't Kandiah p worth at least 2 Kandiah qs?
From this pitch of night a light flickered. A seventy year old Kandiah had stumbled on a means of distinguishing between himself and another Kandiah in the same queue to collect their monthly pension at the local post office. He had discovered a means of splitting all the Siamese twins in their community.
'It is the greatest thing since the splitting of the atom. No, no, none of this false modesty. I have never been one for any kind of falsehood. It is even greater than the splitting of the atom or Alexander the Great's cutting of the Gordian Knot. Our community shall be free. Free of confusion, chaos and calamity. Did you notice, the other Kandiah keeps hunching all the time, his eyes always drooping in the direction of his stomach? Eureka Kandiah, the answer to our dilemma, our Quo Vadis is before our very eyes. The nickname.
'Hereafter that Kandiah queueing in front of me shall be Vaithu Vali Kandiah - Stomach Ache Kandiah.'
A thousand flowers bloomed. And this time the decimal was slightly nearer the right place.
From apparent ailments the nicknames spread to portions of the anatomy. There was Kundi Kandiah or Backside Kandiah who was the butt of misleading jokes which suggested that he was a buttocks pincher or a queer. At the bottom of it all was a more innocent basis. This Kandiah used to amble like a matron. In the process he gave no little prominence to his posterior.
The sobriquets were hardly confined to ailments and postures.
There was Kandiah who gave lifts in his jalopy. That would be putting it mildly. He would not merely offer a lift but insist on one. Not just to friends or mere acquaintances but to just any passerby. There were no complaints about his driving or the nature of the conversation he struck with his passengers. His nickname arose from what he was in the habit of doing when his grateful and innocent passenger was about to alight from his vehicle. This Kandiah would clear his throat and announce the fare that he expected.
That was Taxi Kandiah. A Kandiah whose transport perspective was slightly different was in the habit of loitering at bus stops. The furthest thing from his mind, however, was a bus. He lay there in ambush for any slight acquaintance whose car had to slow down at bus stops since there were few separate lanes for buses. On the surface of it he would be a ripe candidate for the title of Bus Stop Kandiah. But that was not to be. His cutting down on or rather eliminating bus fares from his budget was merely the last lap before he stepped out from the shadow of the bus stop to acquire his very own car. The number of streets with separate bus lanes and bus stops began to increase.
Own-car Kandiah never looked back. He merely turned down numerous offers of lifts from his old acquaintances and his new ones with a 'No thamby. I've got my own car.'
A variation on this game of musical cars was played by another Kandiah. His affliction was that he owned one car too many. His flourishing legal practice and his clients' penchant for sending him to exotic places overseas with their files and their money were the road to his troubles. He rode off in a different car each time and was late for his appointments most mornings because after deciding which tie to wear he had little energy left for the crucial decision of which car to take off in.
Multi-Car Kandiah won friends and influenced people neither through a Dale Carnegie course nor through his winning smile. He would make strategic requests for lifts from potential ring leaders of the community who lived to tell their grandchildren, 'With all his limousines, Multi-Car Kandiah still preferred to ride in my car.'
Lest it be concluded that Transport, Cars and Lifts had wiped out women, wine and song from the community we shall turn to other Kandiahs whose travelling habits were nondescript. They were given to joyous singing in all sorts of places including some very unlikely ones. Funerals, for instance. After much wailing, and screaming the womenfolk would allow the bodies of their departed to leave their households with just the men folk to the cemetery for cremation. At those otherwise thoroughly dreary occasions, these Kandiahs would burst into song. As they were religious songs no frivolity was implied. But it did not stand in the way of a veritable talent time as other Kandiahs burst into melody. One Kandiah would organise trips and pinics at seaside resorts for pensioners and widows with one object only in mind - song. More than one nickname was composed from all this music.
There were Paatter Kara Kandiah or Song Man Kandiah, Talent Time Kandiah and just plain M. Kandiah, 'M for Music he would hum,' while M for money was on the minds of most of his fellow men.
That was Kahang-Kothi Kandiah or Crow-Pecked Kandiah.
While five-year plans and family plans were the in thing another Kandiah believed in letting nature take its course. As with the case of inflation, the number of his children had to be expressed in double-digits that would shame some rabbits and many a Roman Catholic. Asian grandmothers and mothers-inlaw are supposed to bask in the glory of the number of grandchildren they possessed. That was not to be for our proliferating Kandiah.
'What is this Kandiah? Like a dog you are!' She would reprimand each time Mrs Kandiah returned with yet another baby Kandiah. Dogs were considered of a lower social order than rabbits. His mother-in-law was therefore more concerned at conveying her low esteem of such behaviour rather than with the accuracy of the analogy from the animal kingdom. The reprimands did not prove adequate. Having breached the two-digit barrier he galloped past family six a side cricket, full soccer and then even rugby teams.
That was 19-children Kandiah. Rumour had it that like the Group of 77 in the UN, the actual number exceeded this particular mile and milestone that hung around his neck.
The energies of the Kandiahs were not all of the 19-children variety. Many of them were noted for their civic consciousness which was expressed in many forms.
One of them spent much of his energies on keeping a particular society alive. This body had an unusual purpose which linked the next world with the present one. It focussed entirely on that point of time when its members departed from their bodies.
Financial aid was available to the widows and orphans of departed members. This was provided within hours of their departure without numerous forms being filled in triplicate, followed by equally numerous reminders sent in duplicates. To take care of the funeral expenses and immediate departures the society collected a very modest sum of one dollar payable every month in cash. IOU'S, credit cards and other forms of non-cash or delayed payments of the monthly subscription were not permitted by a single device.
The most important office-bearer in the society, namely the Treasurer, would turn up without fail every month at the homes of members with even fewer words than President Coolidge could muster. For this very first visit even he had only two words on his lips: 'One dollar?' For all subsequent visits his telegraphic style improved even further with just 'One?'
So mesmerising were these words or rather was this particular word that the benevolent organizations surpassed the record of the World Bank and other financial organizations with Triple A credit ratings. There was not a single delayed payment, let alone a default in the history of the society's existence.
As he rode or rather walked away into the sunset periodically after making the society's payments to the stricken widow many an orphan was heard to ask, 'Who was that unmasked man who just gave us all this money and left without a word before we could thank him?'
Without so much as a 'Hi Yo Silver'or 'Kemo Sabay' from his Tonto? That was the work of Oru-Velli Kandiah i.e. One Dollar Kandiah.
Another of the many civic conscious Kandiahs was able to do more than his quota of one good deed per day without any Gold, Silver or Tonto. The prevailing trend as Art Buchwald caricatured some time ago, was for people not to get involved.
This Kandiah did not merely get involved, he got immersed totally in the favourite American pursuit of happiness and security. The slight variation was that it was not for himself but for others. He was Honorary Secretary of countless associations ranging from his school's Old Boys Association through the Boy Scouts and the Cricket Council to the Spastic Children Association. One of the more than seven parts he played in his lifetime was that of Honorary Secretary of the local housing areas Residents' Association. So vigilant a guardian was he of the security of all households in his flock that they had little need for burglar alarms, security guards or Alsatians. In this capacity his favourite story was that of the Senior Army Officer's house which was broken into in the early hours of the morning while the officer was away. The wife could hear the 'eight footsteps of the four burglars creeping up the staircase.' She screamed for help.
'She could have called for the Police, called out the Army, yelled for Securicor, Safeguards, the Home Guard, her neighbours or just hollered for help to the neighbourhood at large. Instead her first SOS was for Kandiah!' he beamed.
That was Take-Care Kandiah who took care of everyone else before himself.
Lest this turn into a census enumeration of all the Kandiahs - illustrious and otherwise - we shall wind up this tale with just one other Kandiah. He was the one whose creativity went beyond the trivia on birth certificates and passports as he went round giving nicknames to all the other Kandiahs. That was Funny Funny Names Kandiah.
He was the Kandiah who told me this story.