Miss Seetoh in the World (59 page)

I had told you, dear Brother, about my new
life, my new world, where I would do nothing but exactly what I liked, away
from troublesome people, but now I am not so sure. I feel an urge to get out
into that large, messy, ugly world out there because there is a huge falsehood
that I had contributed to. (Who knows how much of my frank conversations about
the great TPK, even my little satirical poem, had added to the man’s anger and
need for revenge?) I would like to see TPK to tell him the truth as I know it,
go to his office and request an interview – I’m not even sure about the proper
procedure. If that fails, I would like to write to the newspapers to give my
account of the truth, and expose The Holy One (even in my present confusion,
there’s a little place for humour – I now think of him as The Wholly Unholy
Holy One). In doing so, I’ll be implicating myself and probably have to answer
a whole lot of discomfiting questions. But that is more bearable than the
present torment of guilt about TPK and rage against V.K. Pandy (also to a
certain extent, his wife).

Wish you were here, dear Brother Phil, to
help me clarify the thoughts in my head, the tumult in my heart.
Wish you
were here.
How many times have I ended a letter to you, whether bearing
good or bad news, with that longing.

Love

Maria.’

‘My dearest Phil,

As I had half expected, my request for an
interview with the prime minister was turned down. I do not know whether it was
because I had not stated my reason clearly or appropriately enough, or whether
he simply wanted to forget what must have been the most horrible experience in
his life. But I believe that my request has already created a secret dossier of
Maria Seetoh Wei Cheng that is now part of their efficient surveillance
machinery; my phone is probably being tapped this very minute! The latest I
heard about Mrs TPK was that she is preparing to go the United States, to be a
subject for the clinical testing of some new drug – that’s the extent of the
poor woman’s desperation to stay alive because she is completely devoted to her
husband and their two daughters and watches over their welfare even in her
illness.

I had also written a letter to The Straits
Tribune, and have not received any answer, which probably means that the paper
doesn’t want to be involved in anything that would displease or distress TPK.
Poor TPK. I saw him on TV yesterday, doing his usual round of his constituency,
shaking hands with hawkers and ordinary folk, but not looking his usual
ebullient self. It is difficult for me, after that experience, not to
superimpose upon the familiar image of strength and power that of the
ridiculous pantomime figure, the slapstick buffoon, the clown in a schoolboy
skit! The feeling is a most uncomfortable one, as if something exceptionally
bad has happened to the whole society and things will never be the same again.
I suspect it is the same with many Singaporeans. They do not seem keen to talk
about The Holy One; perhaps the grapevine is already buzzing with rumours based
on the report and pictures in The International Courier, but nobody is prepared
to talk openly. It is probably an episode that Singaporeans would be happy to
forget. It seems that many of those purportedly healed by him are complaining
about fraudulence. A foreign journalist had written something about subjecting
the holy fluid to a lab test. I don’t care to know the results – I’m just so
sick of it all!

I will try again to seek an interview, to
interest the newspapers; perhaps the tabloids might be tempted to run my story,
though I doubt it, everyone’s so fearful. I don’t know whether wanting to tell
the truth, regardless of the consequences, is a good or bad thing, but right
now, this turmoil in me, a mix of guilt and remorse and anger, is like a wound
in the flesh that has to be cauterised away, an embolism in the blood that has
to be cleared out! It bothers me even in my sleep.

Last night I had a dream in which TPK (the
very first time he’s appeared in my dreams!) was standing, in that awful
loincloth, before a roaring fire and reading the satirical poem about Tua Peh
Kong. His words did not come out clearly; at times, he seemed to be quoting
from Shakespeare, Kahlil Gibran, Gandhi. Then he crushed the sheet of paper,
threw it into the flames, and turned to face V.K. Pandy and myself who were
among the large crowd watching him. He said in a loud voice, ‘You know what?
There is more real love in me than in all of you combined, you idiots, you
hypocrites!’

His words are throbbing in my head as I am
writing this letter. Dear, wise one, I usually ignore dreams, but what should I
make of this one?

I will have to wait to see how things
develop in the next few days. Weeks? Months? But I know what I should do
meanwhile. I will continue to be happy. The deep peace in me since I moved into
my new life has not really vanished, thank God (see how we disgusting atheists
can’t leave off the old pious invocations!); it is only temporarily perturbed,
like the surface of a lake ruffled by a storm, that will appear calm again once
the storm has passed. This storm will, must, pass, since it is not the first,
nor will it be the last I will endure. Oh dear, who would have thought that a
simple soul like me wanting only to be good and do good, to be happy in life,
could be involved in so much mess?

Talking about mess, that dreadful girl
Maggie called again. Or rather it was her sister Angel, who then passed the
phone to her. She was in hospital, recovering from some injuries which she said
had been caused by the abusive boyfriend Sonny. Of course I had no choice but
to visit that wretched girl in hospital; I had a sneaking suspicion that some
of the injuries were self-inflicted to provide convincing proof to the police
of the boyfriend’s violent behaviour, for she had her sister take photographs
of every single one of them. But then again, they could be real injuries. Angel
told me when we left the hospital that Sonny, when drunk, was capably of any
brutality. Talk about misplaced scepticism! I simply had to ask this girl, who
is certainly far more savvy than she looks, whether she appreciated at all her
sister’s love for her, the sacrifices she was making for her future. Her reply
was a scornful, ‘Love? She loves only herself, that’s all. She’s just making
use of me.’ Then she let me in on a scheme of Maggie’s where I would play a
part: help her get the police to restrain Sonny, and then the wily girl would
be free to go with someone who is courting her, a rich businessman from
Indonesia. She is the consummate survivor. I’ll never understand her unruly
world. I wouldn’t be surprised, one of these days, to be dragged into it again,
to testify in court in connection with some horrendous crime, like her
attempting to kill the boyfriend, or his attempting to kill her, or that
strange sister who makes me think of Lolita attempting to kill them both. It is
said, You can be in the world, but you need not be of it. Oh no, one doesn’t
have that luxury. The truth is that as long as you are in the world, you have
no choice but to be of it – taking on its savvy, cunning, wiles. I’ve come to
the conclusion that Machiavelli is a far more honest – and effective – teacher
than my Plato or Socrates. I’ll have to learn something of Maggie’s skills,
whether to outwit her or to help her. It’s a great burden when you are the only
one in the world a young person can turn to.

I will wait for the appropriate moment to
act, but meanwhile I can continue to go about the little things that make me
happy. I am, will be, can be, must be, should be, happy – here’s the old
teacher of English grammar mobilising all its resources for her purpose! Two
days ago I visited the Botanic Gardens again, for the sheer pleasure of
watching little children feed the fish and ducks; yesterday Asma, the friendly
security guard I told you about, promised to take me shopping, on her next day
off, in her Malay market where I can get the best spices to try out the recipes
in a new cookery book I bought, and this morning, after breakfast, I looked
through some notes and found I had ideas for a collection of stories for
children. Writing – that will be both passion and survival for me.

At the back of my mind is a little plan that
you may laugh at, my dear Phil: I want eventually to write the biography of the
great TPK! So far the books about him are all about his admirable achievements
for Singapore, his fantastic leadership that has made Singapore the most
successful economy in Asia. I have seen the human side, which makes him a much
more likeable person. But I’m not sure how to tell his story fully and honestly
because it is intertwined with the bizarre story of V.K. Pandy.

How I wish you were here, dearest, dearest
Phil. I don’t know how I can do without you! I am happy writing these letters
to you and then receiving your replies. And dearest, do find time from your
busy, busy schedule to write longer, more frequent letters to your old friend
in Singapore! You know how happy you make me.

Much love

Maria.’

In 1998, Maria published a book for children
called
Garden of Tales
and two years later, a collection of short
stories called
The Godling and Other Stories of Singapore
.

She kept alive her desire to write a
biography of Mr Tang Poon Kim, Prime Minister of Singapore, but her request for
an interview was continually turned down. When Mr Tang retired from politics in
2002, after the death of his wife, and decided to write his autobiography, he
at last agreed to see her. She brought along the notes she had made to give the
truest account possible of all her dealings with V.K. Pandy, from the first
time she spoke to him in Middleton Square, through his lunch with her and the
final witnessing of that terrible act of vengeance. But the interview lasted a
mere hour, with some polite questions from Mr Tang. It was the first and last
time she had come face to face with the prime minister whom she never stopped
thinking of as the ‘great TPK’. When Mr Tang’s autobiography finally appeared
in 2005, a huge tome with several chapters devoted to his beloved wife, there
was not a single reference to V.K. Pandy.

Brother Philip was posted to the Philippines
where he continued to write to Maria. They never saw each other again. He was
killed in a motor accident in 2004. Maria learnt of his death only a week
later, as she had been busy travelling to promote her books.

A prolific writer, Catherine Lim has written
more than 19 books across various genres – short stories, novels, reflective
prose, poems and satirical pieces. Born in 1942 Malaya, Lim was a teacher, then
project director with the Ministry of Education and a specialist lecturer with
the Regional Language Centre (RELC) before dedicating herself fully to writing
in 1992.

Lim has won several national and regional
book prizes for her literary contributions, including the National Book
Development Council (NBDCS) awards in 1982, 1988 and 1990; the Montblanc-NUS
Centre For The Arts Literary Award in 1998; and the 1999 regional Southeast
Asian Write Award. She was conferred an Honorary Doctorate of Literature by
Murdoch University, Australia, in 2000, and a Knight of the Order of Arts and
Letters by the French Ministry of Culture and Information in 2003. Lim was also
Ambassador for the Hans Christian Andersen Foundation, Copenhagen, in 2005.

Many of Lim’s works are studied in local and
foreign schools and universities, and have been published in various languages
in several countries. She was the first Singaporean author to pen an
electronic-novella over the Internet, which has since been adapted into a
movie.

Besides writing, Lim guest lectures at local
and international seminars, conferences, arts/writing festivals and cruise
ships worldwide. She has also appeared on radio and television programmes in
Singapore, Europe and Australia.