Lower Delta Road will never feel the same again. The KTM tracks i grew up next to is bidding farewell to us & being shipped back to Malaysia. The picturesque carpets of lush greenery will most likely make way for rapid urbanization & the invasion of the concrete jungle. It has managed to stave off the mushrooming of tar and cement for decades but “progress” must have its way- The future must bulldoze through the past. :p

It’s the end of an era and sadly I was not able to commemorate it with that long trek down its tracks, the way Mama and I did before the expressway next to her flat (the now non-existent Blk 103 Lower Delta Road) opened up to cars. I didn’t think juggling a 5 month old baby & feeding the mozzies whilst baking under the Sun would have been very possible for me. I thus contented myself with checking out photos taken by friends, photojournalists & a friend who became a photojournalists, Alphonsus Chern.

As I pored through them, memories of my childhood surfaced. I recalled downing steaming hot cups of Milo whilst dunking cream crackers in them at my maternal grandmother’s flat in Lower Delta Road. I remembered struggling to hear dialogue from the TV set as trains went by. The rhythmic “der-der-der-dong, der-der-der-dong” of the carriages as they marched past us day and night is unforgettable. It was loud but strangely soothing.

I thought of my grandma’s redifussion broadcasting horror stories in the night, of wrestling matches she and I would catch on her CRT telly that needed to be warmed up on rainy days before it would show anything on its screen. I recalled propping up her bamboo poles on my shoulders with one end on the window sill so that she could hang her clothes out on them. I thought of how I used to lean out of her kitchen window to watch the puffs of cloud against the azure sky rush on by. I remembered a different me, a different time. Memories of those train tracks mean memories of Mama & of my childhood staying with her. No two ways about it.

The lalang that grew by the tracks often caught fire in the drier months. The fire engine siren was no stranger to us and would beckon to us to join in the commotion by peering through the safety of our gates at the blaze that would leave charred patches of ground which would spring to verdant life with renewed vigour.

Wayang stages were erected by those same lalang fields each time the lunar seventh month came about. Neighbors would bring plastic and metal stools downstairs to watch the Chinese opera performers dance and sing in their shimmering sequined garbs before paper backdrops that would be flipped to transport us to different “locations”. We would be standing by the river as a character pondered the loss of a lover and the meaning of life, then find ourselves in the living room of an old matriarch. A makeshift guava stall often found its way to the front, beside the stage and the neighbours’ children would play catching nearby as their parents & grandparents pat their hands on their feet in time to the music of the night. Some of us would be watching the action backstage as eyes were lined and faces, heavily painted. When no feet danced upon the wooden stage in the day, they would be resting in hammocks tied beneath the same stage as the actors took their siestas, hiding away from the hot afternoon sun. Wayangs are few and far between these days, a dying art as they had to make way for the crasser Getai with its garish music, cabaret outfitted artistes and shimmering disco balls.

Back to the trains…

I used to climb the window grills of my aunt’s bedroom to watch the trains chug on by. I imagined what it must be like to be on the train. I pictured the long journeys people were making to their loved ones. I also had to be careful not to be caught behaving like a monkey by my cane wielding grandmother. :)

On the many occasions where I played at the stairwell of the apartment building with my friends, we would hurry to the grills to wave to the passengers aboard the trains. To our delight, people would wave back sometimes.

The stairwell was our stage. Upon it the neighbour’s kids and I organized talent shows, Miss Universe competitions and the like. Carol, Natalie, May Choy and I would spend hours imagining and playing- a luxury most kids can ill afford these days because of their growing load of schoolwork, isolation of neighbours, and the call of the handheld gaming devices… Yet another way the past has to bow to the future. I wondered about my friends. We are in our thirties now- what is life like for them? Are they married with children of their own as I am now? I wish we could get back in touch with each other once more. I haven’t been able to successfully find them despite Facebook- I know none of their surnames. ^.^”

I have to pause here as the baby awakes and creates new memories in our lives. His brother is also awake and sadly, plays alone as none of the kids these days play at the flat corridors and stairwells as we did before. We trade away simpler times for modern conveniences and advancements- inevitable as it is, I cannot help but wish for my son to have enjoyed the more idyllic and social childhood that I did.