Category: The Throne

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The Throne

Free Souls?

Translated by Isa Kamari from his own Malay novel

Flats at Ang Mo Kio in 1970s. From Public Domain
Chapter 3

Free souls
Wouldn’t be easily bored
By mentoring and demands
For it’s the stable self
That gives rise to liberation
And that’s called freedom 
It isn’t about release without aims
Just like city folks
Released from home or work
Wander aimlessly
At shopping malls
Seek excitement
From novelty and transience
It isn’t that Life
Doesn’t require variety
Or it isn’t that the soul
Doesn’t long for fun
It’s just that we who claim to be free
Are easily entrapped
In useless pettiness
That we spread
In the city
Without ever realising
That we haven’t returned
To the doors of our hearts
Although we’ve stepped afoot
Onto the house compound

Living in the flat at Ang Mo Kio was definitely different from the barrack. Our new house was clean and comfortable. We did not have to share the latrine and bathroom. The terrazzo floor made our house look modern, beautiful and sleek compared to the cement floor that was laid with rubber mats with many holes and tears.

Our flat was on the fourth floor that was serviced by a lift and staircase. Behind our block was a small lawn. There were several provision shops at the housing block in front of ours. So, it was convenient to shop for groceries. From the physical perspective, living in a flat had elevated the standard of living of our family. But it had its own pressures.

To support the needs of the family and children’s education both our parents had to earn a living. There were many maintenance and educational bills that had to be paid. Father still cycled to work but he had changed job as a mechanic at a factory that produced air-conditioning units at Kallang Basin. Our Mother started working as a housemaid at the neighbouring Teachers Estate.

Both our parents had to face the challenges of a new life and pinned their hopes that their children would do well in school. I managed to step into university while my two sisters passed their school examinations well. My fourth and youngest brothers also scored well in their results. It was only he who in secondary three[1] failed in his examinations miserably. Both our parents were shocked, disappointed and angry with him.

An argument ensued. Father gave him a tight slap until his cheek was bruised. He swore vehemently and spat on the floor. We were shocked and bewildered by his crass behaviour. We did not expect it at all. We knew him to be gentle and quiet. He ran away from home and did not return for a week.

Fortunately, it was the school holidays. Therefore,  there was no problem created at school. Or, so we thought.

When school reopened, he refused to continue with his studies. We advised and coaxed him repeatedly, but he did not budge from his choice. Both our parents could do nothing and gave in to his stubbornness. He did not attend school anymore. His new habit was to roam aimlessly with his friends who lived at nearby blocks.

One night he returned home seemingly drunk and confused after going out the whole day. His eyes were bloodshot, and he vomited a few times. He rushed to his room and slept. He wrapped his body with a blanket although it was a warm night

The next morning Mother asked him to see a doctor, but he refused. He locked himself in the room. We noticed that his body trembled often. And he began to talk nonsense with a slurred voice.

It was at that moment that we realised that he was involved in drugs.

Our family was shaken. We did not know how this happened. We were clueless as to what to do next. Should we have reported him to the police? That would result in him being detained at a drug rehabilitation centre, DRC. Was it possible to give him treatment without reporting to the authorities? How could we do about this? See a doctor or healer? We were confused and anxious.

Both our parents kept asking how and where he had obtained money to purchase drugs which were expensive? Our Mother only gave him enough money for food and cigarettes.

The answer was revealed itself not long afterwards in a situation that broke our parents’ hearts. Our family was confronted with a disaster.

[1] Grade 9

Click here to access Chapter 1 of The Throne.

Click here to access Chapter 2 of The Throne.

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
The Throne

Earth Jasmine, Sky Jasmine

Translated by Isa Kamari from his own Malay novel

The Throne in Malay
Chapter 2
Earth jasmine, sky jasmine
String of jasmine encircles the heart
Jasmine poured with water from the hills
Jasmine sprinkled by a pinch of compost
Seven rivers, seven clouds
Rain pelts onto forlorn petals
Beauty is to the form, beauty to the eyes
Beauty is the hand that tends to the soil
Beauty is the fingers that caress the leaves
Beauty is the cut on the arms of the gardener
The scorching sun, the shade from the foliage
Bountiful is the soul of the tree that delivers
Witness to a life devoted to hard work 
With laws of nature as the axis
Strong roots clench the earth
Shoots look up high to the sky
Feet stand firmly, the soul sings
Blossoms waft fragrant dreams
Earth jasmine, sky jasmine
Jasmine blooms in the early morning
Say your prayers, introduce yourself

“Can you relate your brother’s childhood?”

“What do you want to know, doctor?”

“Everything. Just tell me earnestly.”

I looked at the doctor’s face cynically. I knew his intentions. He was trying to trace my brother’s past to detect the crucial point at which he changed to what he has become at present.

The doctor smiled. Perhaps he can read what is in my heart. He nodded gently, his eyes were clear. He held my arm gently:

We lived in a barrack. There were ten doors at the front and ten more at the back. Each house had a living room and bedroom. The walls were of wooden planks. At the top of the wall a wire mesh was affixed to enable air to flow between the houses. It was not only air that was exchanged. All gossips and secrets of each family were also heard by neighbours. The ceiling was of asbestos sheets nailed to a wooden frame. The roof sheets were also of corrugated asbestos.

Just imagine there were eight of us living in a house that was only about thirty-five metres square. He was the fifth child of six children.

A row of small kitchens was located at the side of the barrack, with the common bath-house next to it. The common latrine was located near the municipal drain behind a grove of succulent banana shrubs. There were several poultry coops at the fringe of the barrack.

I still remembered the days when Mother took him and my other siblings to a plant nursery at Malcolm Road. I did not follow them as I was in the morning session at school. The plot of land was leased by the government to a Chinese towkay[1]. They went there very early in the morning to earn some money by picking jasmine blossoms. For each plastic packet of jasmine blossoms, they would receive ten cents. These packets were sold by the towkay to hawkers at Tekka Market for the consumption by mainly Indians, who seemed to have a penchant for it.

At about ten in the morning they walked home for about one kilometre. Altogether they would earn about two dollars. They would go there almost every day except over the weekends or when it rained heavilu. They feared lightning strikes. My siblings would then go to school in the afternoon. I know they were rather bored with the routine. I felt they were disappointed because they could not play with their kampong[2] friends in the morning.

But I knew that it was one of the many ways that Mother employed to earn additional income to support the family. Upon returning home, Mother would prepare meals for her children. From the money earned picking jasmine blossoms, all of us had some pocket money for school.

Father worked as a gardener in a condominium at Pandan Gardens. He cycled to work and returned home after dusk. It was only at night that we gathered as a family. Most of us were rather exhausted by then.

But everything changed when our family moved to a flat at Ang Mo Kio. From his own savings Father paid seventeen thousand dollars in cash for the flat. We were delightfully surprised. All along he had been very frugal and saved money for the well-being of the family. We moved to a more comfortable home. However, it posed challenges which were just as grave and testing to our souls.

(An earlier version was published in 2021 by Kitaab International)

[1] boss

[2] Traditional hamlet or village

About the Novel: The Throne is an unflinching exploration of schizophrenia set against the backdrop of modern Singapore. At once realistic and allegorical, it charts a man’s descent into alienation from his turbulent youth to his fractured adulthood. Blurring the boundaries between poetry and prose, the narrative becomes both intimate confession and universal parable.

More than a story of illness, The Throne meditates on the fragile yet fertile nexus of madness, creativity, and spirituality. Within this tension lies the possibility of healing—a reconciliation born of suffering, sacrifice, and an enduring search for meaning.

Click here to access Chapter 1 of The Throne.

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
The Throne

Journey to the ‘Palace’

Translated from his own Malay novel by Isa Kamari

Chapter 1

I bow to you
King

I bear the torment of your sadness
In the embrace of my sleep
May it transform into
Glad tidings
For the days of your people
This exploration is
To find your throne
Which has disappeared
From our hearts

For my love to you
King

It was undeniable that he acted like a king. All his commands were to be obeyed, although he never asked for it directly, he hurt others and disrupted the peace in our family. He knew how to toy around with the opinions and feelings of others. He was not stupid, but smart and cunning.

And here I was bowing to him again. This was not the first time. I had come to pay homage to him on numerous occasions. That day was no different.

I waited for the van at Hougang interchange. It would be sent by the government to take guests to the ‘palace’, just as in the past horse carriages were sent to welcome dignitaries. But I was not of any importance — just an ordinary person with a little heart.

The van arrived at 1pm. Several commuters alighted. Almost all of them look depressed. A few smiled or smirked and waved their hands without any perceptible reason. I realised they resided at the ‘palace’ and had been given permission to return home or wander for a prescribed period. Clothed in dark blue shorts and T-shirts, they could take care of themselves but were still under close supervision.

I boarded the van and sat in the back row. Others, including two maids in the ‘palace’ uniform, boarded it too. All the passengers looked pensive. I began to think that the ‘palace’ had the ability to spread an air of melancholy as had been rumoured. I shivered and began to feel restless and out of sorts.

The van moved and turned right at the traffic junction, then turned right again and passed by a polyclinic and stadium next to a large canal. During the journey through the housing estate, I chanced upon the realisation that moderation in hopes and actions could be the key to a stable and peaceful life. Perhaps.

From far, I saw the ‘palace’ complex situated on a knoll covered in greenery. There was no ornamental gate at the entrance, but the complex looked neat and tidy — surely as a result of efficient operation and maintenance.

The van climbed the slope, turned left and then right twice before arriving at the main lobby of the institute of mental health with the corporate name of Buangkok Green Medical Park, which is the ‘palace’ for patients with mental disorder. It was called the infamous Woodbridge hospital before.

I stood still for a moment after I got off from the van. My eyes scanned the surroundings. Several inhabitants and visitors roamed freely in the concourse. I saw a brown marble statue with yellow spots beside a spiral staircase. It depicted a bent figure that supported another firmly and earnestly.

I was uncertain whether I could be like the statue for I felt really tired attending to his endless whims and fancies. I do not know when he could take care of himself sufficiently and with ease. There were always problems that emerged in his life. If these were limited to him, perhaps it would not matter. But it was not uncommon that the predicaments he faced dragged the entire family into turmoil. Undoubtedly, he acted like a cruel king who tortured us although he may not have realised it himself.

There were several stalls at the side of the lobby selling handicrafts of the residents of this ‘palace’. The institution attempted to paint a picture that there is still hope for them to return to normal life. I smiled cynically. What could be sold to reach that state, I wondered?

I was almost certain that it’s just an empty wish, specifically for the king who I am seeking audience with. Honestly, I was beginning to lose hope. I was there to fulfil a moral duty towards a person who shares our parents’ blood. Blood is thicker than water, they say. But if it is sullied blood or water keeps on flowing, I would have to divert it so as not to destroy the peace and harmony of our lives. But it has not reached that critical state yet. We are still praying.

I reached the lobby of block 4 after walking through several meandering walkways. I took the lift to the third storey of the palace. I was not allowed to enter the visiting hall after I registered myself with the palace guard at the counter. They were no gongs, drums and flutes to welcome me. There were no performances. I was shocked by the new experience.

I was confused and nervous haunted by the wild cries, wailing and chanting from a group of inhabitants in the adjoining room. They were prancing and swaying their bodies without care. Were they zombies, clowns or buskers who are having fun?

God forgive me. My chest palpitated heavily. I took a deep breath. I did not know what to expect next. I left it to the one and only King.

(An earlier version was published in 2021 by Kitaab International)

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

About the Novel: The Throne is an unflinching exploration of schizophrenia set against the backdrop of modern Singapore. At once realistic and allegorical, it charts a man’s descent into alienation from his turbulent youth to his fractured adulthood. Blurring the boundaries between poetry and prose, the narrative becomes both intimate confession and universal parable.

More than a story of illness, The Throne meditates on the fragile yet fertile nexus of madness, creativity, and spirituality. Within this tension lies the possibility of healing—a reconciliation born of suffering, sacrifice, and an enduring search for meaning.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles