The mall was once green. Then orange. Today it is a clinical white rimmed with red. But through the years, it has kept that conical funnel panelled by dark tinted glass as its keystone.
Punggol park: fishing in the pond with my dad, flying kites on weekends, that one playground with a slide that is made up of spinning cylinders that roll you down. Years later, learning how to cycle there with dad, practicing soccer with dad. Practicing skating myself.
That one cosy little restaurant with al fresco looking out into the pond we fished in, which I loved. Every time we visited – which was not very often – was a special treat. That one time they mistakenly served my family an extra dish.
The one flat we lived in with the bar with inverted wine glasses hanging and an optical illusion painting (I never saw it). With a central courtyard boxed in by identical buildings. Thirteen floors seeming impossibly high up, that I felt like I was dreaming each time I looked up to find our window from the ground.
Those evening taekwondo lessons I watched from my thirteenth floor window. That one coffeeshop that made do on most days.
When my parents’ friends sleptover with their daughter. When us girls would race to the lift lobby to be the first to hit the button.
My Popo’s place, where I lived for many years – more years than anywhere else. Four floor ups with no lift for most of my childhood.
The stationary shop, right in front of where the stairs ended, that sold toys and trinkets and an array of stationary I coveted. The friendly uncle with salt and pepper hair and square glasses and his wife with her hair always in a bun, with severe features that belied her own gentleness.
Taking things on credit, for where would we go? I had to pass them every time I left the apartment.
Many years later, Uncle had a stroke. That was after their shop space was divided into half, the other leased to a barber. (Today, it is a mala shop). I saw him again, after his retirement, at Punggol park playing a quiet game of croquet. He smiled crookedly back as I ran past and waved.
Punggol Park. Runing there as an alternative to Hougang > Kovan > Serangoon. Sometimes I ran with Celine. Sometimes we ran at Hougang Stadium. Most times I ran alone. But when we ran together, that one time we passed a heavily breathless fellow runner, and I made a joke: “Luke, I am your father”. Silly things.
Celine and I, every morning for a few years, at the kerb of my grandma’s neighbourhood, waiting for Shermi and her mom in their minivan. Our ride to school. Many mornings, irritable, Celine annoying me with her slowness. Shermi had the idea to bring beehoon to school, from that coffeeshop where we waited by the kerb. It became a thing at midmorning break: beehoon was banned.
Still Celine and I, some years later. That very spot we always stood at the crossroads between her house and mine. Always those long, meandering conversations, squeezing the most of our last few moments.
The MRT. Meeting there to travel together. Celine always the later one. The time Celine brought ice cream in with her and was reprimanded by a staff. The time she whipped out a towel from her bag to dry her still soaking, right out of shower hair once we plopped down on the train. The one time she spilt an entire cup of iced milk tea and it ran the course of many carriages.
The time we had a massive argument because the escalators on either side of the platform were going up and down in a different direction than usual (but someone insisted it was not different from usual). Asking the station masters for clarity just because we could not let go of our stance (They switched the up and down direction depending on the time of day). I can’t remember who was right. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Eating banmian at Hougang Mall’s top floor foodcourt with Celine. Having sambal grilled fish pasta with my dad at the same spot. And many years before, eating dinner after school with mom, while Holland V played an iconic scene on the mounted public TV, and my laugh echoed in the once spacious layout.
Of these many friendships and conversations:
Taking bus 74 or 147 from CHIJ OLN to my grandma’s home after school, and many times with my mushroom-haired friend, who alighted at the same stop. Meandering through the HDBs with her, although it was the complete opposite of my way home. Just to talk, just to laugh, and play.
Play. The many times we stayed on campus after school just to do that. The old campus – now a nun’s quarters – for 2 years, where we played Spider with Madeline’s club, or touch the pole with C’s club. Where I arrived at school early and played with ants. Where they had up posters on kidney failure symptoms that terrified me.
The new campus. When we acted out every scene in Harry Potter. Laughing at Celine during her Brownie duties. The campus with that spiraling stairwell that started with ramps. Planting our own rainbow corn in styrofoam boxes. The mid-building rooftop with those swinging chairs.
When I would spend endless, endless hours in the school library, finishing the entire fiction section by my graduation, my nose in a book the entire walk from library to bus to home.
Sometimes it rained, and before a sheltered path was built from bus stop to home, I had to call my Popo from a payphone in school. She would make her way with an umbrella, waiting for me at the bus stop, we would walk home together.
Years back when I was very young, and was living apart from my Popo, I would sleepover every Friday and through the weekend. On Fridays, traipsing down after dinner to buy candied malt that stuck to teeth, and a bag of Ruffles Sour Cream and Onion (or Cheddar). Friday nights staying up late, lying on the couch and watching anything I wanted with Popo — Wizard of Oz, Huan Zhu Gege, and the many comedic dramas of Zhang Weijian.
Moving to a new neighbourhood. The soccer field, the basketball court. The void deck, where, when my friends came over, we made and played with water balloons. When we came back up and thought Jiayu was dead (she was not), because the gas stove was on, and she was motionless.
The many times Kejun came to sleepover. The times Celine and Chloe came, making them trashy lunches of ramen and cheese. Most days being left alone at home to my own devices, and watching too many horror movies than was appropriate for my age.
And so many years later, bringing K there and being stopped by our MP for a welfare survey.
Tuition. Mr Caterpillar Eyes. Pranking the tutor with well-placed glue on my homework. Science, primary school. Somewhere in Hougang Central. I never listened, played truant at times. Meeting Chevon to buy meat pies and tuna puffs from the coffee shop and lounging around the playground. The one across the street from Punggol park, with the coffee shop that sells fried chicken and fries.
This same playground, I visited many other times with Kelicia. Playing silly games. When we graduated to University, studying in the public areas around the void decks. Many years later, I came back to the empty space to practice skating.
Another tuition, Mr Maran. This time with Celine and Beni. JC. “Put the fella inside the S.”
Swimming miles and miles in the public pool. Right next to it, Hougang Stadium. Running alone. Those big stadium lights that are too bright in the evenings. During election periods, the stadium being charged with so much fervour that I felt that electric buzz just walking past outside.
Hiding out in the childhood home I now return to as an adult. Lockdown in perfect safety. My quiet, breezy, cosy little nook in Hougang as the pandemic raged on around it. Glancing out to the river. Skating around. Runs from the river path all the way to Waterway.
Now, Hougang through the eyes of another, and of an outsider. The walls are whiter. They have cleared the clutter that once caused a fire that licked its way up the fourth floor; a charcoal black that stained for years. Popo came to ours in the middle of the night when it happened. Now, there is a lift. My grandma, 92, still climbs the stairs sometimes.
Q 