During my last week at my previous company about a month ago, I was informed by my brother the day after that my old house was burnt down. If I remember correctly, it was 4th Sept, a Monday night around 8pm when the fire broke out. This is what’s left:
When my brother told me about the incident, I was not feeling anything- nothing. I asked my brother if anyone got hurt and luckily my grandma wasn’t at the old house when it happened; I learnt later that she was about an hour before. Relieved.
Perhaps a little history.
My old home is a wooden house. It’s the middle one out of three built within an area. Without fences, I’m prety free to ‘roam’ around into my neighbour’s compound. The space in between my neighbour’s house and mine was occasionally used for badminton games in the evening and during the weekends. There’s quite a big area in front of my home, where my siblings and I would cycle around. There’s a big rambutan tree in front of my home, but it never bore fruit; it’s the male plant, I was used to be told, and it’s to give fruits to the rambutan trees at the back of my house. On the ‘male’ rambutan tree, there are some wild orchid plants, which flowered for a day once in a while. At the back of my house, there were a starfruit tree and a few durian trees. My grandma used to keep chickens in a small wooden hut at the back of my house, and also ducks for their eggs. So yes, my family used to have fresh and ’self-raised’ food.
What’s remained of my neighbour houses:
Living in my old home, I would think that I’m more like a kampung boy. I’ve catched spiders and tadpoles. I had played ‘land-fishing’ (it’s a game where you’ll use a strain of hair to catch lion ant larvae). I’ve chased dogs and cats, and being chased by dogs and cats around. I’ve heard rain splattering on zinc roof and still remember how it all sounded. I remember sleeping in mosquito-netted bed.
I lived in my old house even until I left for studies at Singapore. My family moved to a new place about a year after, when I was still in Singapore. My family would occasionally go back to the old house, mainly to prepare meals to be brought to the new house. That way, the kitchen at the new place would be kept clean. And besides, my grandma (who was the cook) and my aunt (who was the 2nd cook in my family) prefer to work their cooking magic at the old house.
Having been living almost all my life in the old house, it has many many great memories. I remember the markings on the back of the main door, showing my heights every a few months when I was growing up. I remember the traditional layout of my home, with an open area at the kitchen area for drying of clothes and food items, like keropok, dried chilli and salted fish, with old traditional wooden door lock where two wood were put across the twin-opening doors to close them. I remember the altar, where I used to pray with joss stick every evening. I remember being frightened to go to the toilet at night (the toilet is not part of the house but a structure on its on at the back of the house, though it’s just about 5 steps away…) So much so much more… and much much more…
Anyway, I wasn’t all that sad when I came to know about it. Perhaps I’ve moved on, perhaps I hadn’t been to the old house enough when I returned during holidays to feel for it. But when I saw what’s left, it did bring a certain bitterness to my heart. It felt as if I’ve not lived long enough in that home, it seemed like when I left for Singapore, it was too premature a departure.
When I looked around, I see many things that reminded me of my childhood. Standing under the sky, I could remember how the ceiling looked like. how cooling the cement floor felt like. How I love to sit on the swing in front of my house, watching bats in the evening, watching hornbills on the coconut trees…
But yes, I was casual about it when I told my friends about the incident. Why? There’s nothing I can do about it. It’s too late. And there’s no point feeling sad about it. And all the memories, they are in my head, and I certainly hope I can remember them always and forever…
A partially burnt old music book.
My old blanket…
More burnt stuff:
My aunt collected some bricks to be brought to the new home.
Memories…
