The Best I Could (6 page)

RI was always slaughtered by Johor English College. That year, though, we had finished second to St Patrick’s School and we felt for once that we had a team that could beat Johor. The football standard at RI had never been that high. Everybody was excited about the game. But out of the blue, we received some bad news and it had to do with me. Mr Pestana, the athletics master, told me I had to run in a cross-country race for City District on the same day that the football match was scheduled to be played. Gopal Singh had come in first in RI’s main cross-country race, with me a very close second. I told Gopal jokingly, “Look out for my brother next year. He’ll beat you hands down!” Sure enough, Sudheesh won hands down the following year.

Gopal and I were chosen to run the cross-country race. I had no choice but to seek the assistance of Mr Siddhu. “Sir, can I get out of this? Whether I go or not, City District is going to win because they have enough runners. Can you speak with Mr Pestana and get me out of it so that I can play football?” So, Mr Siddhu went to see Mr Pestana about my request. Mr Pestana explained to him: “This game that you’re going to play against Johor English College is a friendly game though it may be an annual affair. But this race is an official race and it’s an inter-district final. City District must win and they are depending on RI. There’s no way I am going to release Subhas from running.”

Mr Siddhu understood the importance of the race. “Looks as though Pestana is right,” he told me. “You have to run at MacRitchie. The run is at 3.00 pm and the game is around 4.00 pm at our RI field. Can you run and return to school to play?”

I shrugged. “I’m fit and I think I can do that but I need somebody to fetch me from MacRitchie because if I have to catch the bus, I might be too late.”

“No problem,” Mr Siddhu replied. “I’ll ask Lam Peng Kwee to fetch you from MacRitchie and bring you back to school to play. You won’t be able to stay for the prize-giving ceremony after the run.” Peng Kwee was a reserve player in the RI football team who drove a car.

“Fair enough.”

It’s the strangest thing because as I was thinking about whether or not to include the events surrounding the Johor English College game in this book, Lam Peng Kwee came to see me at KhattarWong. He didn’t have an appointment and told the receptionist that he was just an old friend who was in the neighbourhood and wanted to say hello. I hurried to meet him when I heard he was in the office. Peng Kwee is now settled down in Texas, USA, and I was so glad to see him after such a long time. I couldn’t recall when I last saw him. We hugged and I insisted on buying him at least a cup of coffee. He said, “I heard from your girls that you’re very busy.” I assured him that I always had time for an old friend who dropped by unexpectedly. We talked and reminisced about our RI days and we even talked about the Johor English College game. His visit inspired me to include that particular experience in this book.

Anyway, City District won the inter-district cross-country by a good margin. I enjoyed running at MacRitchie as you could feel nature brush against your face as you careened at full speed down the winding footpath that cut through the trees and undergrowth. It always felt wet because of the tropical forest and often you had to jump over puddles of muddy water. The route opened suddenly out to Lornie Road and the glare from the road would hurt your eyes for a while until they adjusted to the brighter light. Passing cars would sometimes honk at you, as if to urge you to go faster. Lamp-posts were markers that would tell you if you were closing in on the runners in front of you or if someone behind was narrowing his distance to you.

Just like the Forrest Gump character in the movie, I did not stay to receive the trophy on behalf of City District and ran straight to Peng Kwee’s car. I did say goodbye to Mr Pestana though. “Good luck. Hurry up now. I think you can just make it,” he called out.

I was still sweating from the run as Peng Kwee’s car surged down Thomson Road towards Bras Basah Road. I put on my socks and boots in the car. I didn’t have to change my shorts because they were the same ones used by the football team. I was filled with excitement and so was Peng Kwee. When we got to the school, I heard that the game had just started. Mr Siddhu, who was anxiously looking out for us, threw a football jersey at me and shouted, “Put it on and get in there.” I put the RI jersey on and went in to play. The adrenaline was rushing through me and I didn’t feel tired at all.

At half time, the score was 1-1. While we were taking our drinks during half time, our principal, Mr E W Jesudason, came up to me with the principal of Johor English College. Mr Jesudason was a kind man though a tough disciplinarian. He was one of the most colourful principals in Singapore and is credited with writing the Institution Anthem of RI. He was fuming mad and reprimanded me in front of everybody. “I don’t care whether you are the star of RI or not. I can’t stand people like you who have no discipline. You think you are a superstar and that you can come late for a game? What is wrong with your football master? Holding on to your jersey, giving it to you and spoiling you? Who do you think you are? I don’t care what your football master says, I’ll be dealing with you personally later. This is breach of discipline of the highest order.” Throughout his rant, I remained silent. Everyone was silent as he walked off in a huff. I think even the players from Johor English College were feeling a little embarrassed for me. I quietly finished my drink.

The game ended in a draw. Johor English College did not find us easy meat like they usually did. We played a very good game. After shaking hands with our opponents, I immediately went to Mr Siddhu and said: “I’m really very, very tired. I have to go home.”

He understood. “Yes, please do that. You don’t have to stay for the reception.” I packed my things and, as usual, he gave me money to take a taxi home.

That was a Friday evening. During the reception, Mr Jesudason apparently approached Mr Siddhu and complained: “How can you allow this to happen?” Mr Siddhu explained to him exactly what I did, rushing back after a cross-country race. Feeling rather bad, Mr Jesudason remarked, “Oh my goodness, I was scolding him and he did not tell me about this.”

On Monday, after a good rest over the weekend, I went to school as usual. One of the prefects informed me that the principal wanted to see me. I went to his office and he said, “Ah, Subhas, come in. Mr Siddhu explained to me what had happened. Why didn’t you explain to me what you had done when I was scolding you? Why were you just keeping quiet? Why didn’t you tell me something?”

I looked at him. “You really want to know the reason, sir? I didn’t want the principal and students of the other school to see that you were making an ass of yourself.”

At first he looked at me angrily, then he burst out laughing and said, “You know, Subhas, that is the Rafflesian spirit. You didn’t want to embarrass your principal.” He proudly shared this incident at the next school assembly.

On one of the occasions when I had to go for cardiac rehabilitation after my heart attack in late 1978, I saw Mr Jesudason sitting on a wheelchair, accompanied by his wife. I was shocked. “Oh my God, he was such an active person. He was a boxer and a black belt judo exponent,” I thought. I saw him sitting there looking so helpless. I went up to him and asked, “Mr Jesudason, do you remember me?”

He stared at my face for a while. “I remember you. I can’t remember your name. You were the one who played football.”

“Yes, I’m Subhas. Sir, what are you doing here?”

“Never mind about what I am doing here. At this age, what are you doing here?” he asked.

I told him that I had suffered a massive heart attack and was advised by my cardiologist to attend rehabilitation classes. He said, “You were such a fine sportsman. What have you done to yourself?”

“Well, sir, when you start working, your routine changes and inevitably there is a lifestyle change.”

“Yes, everybody wants to make money and they forget the greater issues in life. I hope you recover and will be back to your normal self again.” He took my hand and pulled it towards him. “May God bless you,” he said. I thanked him and said goodbye to him and his wife, who was standing behind him and smiling at me.

Not long after that, on a return from one of my business trips to Manila, I was told that Mr Jesudason had died of heart failure. Although I was not close to him, I was quite sad to hear the news. He was one of those who made life in RI a little bit more pleasant for me with all his amusing, sometimes even political, comments. I remember him as a tough man who didn’t treat the sons of ministers and presidents differently from other students. His stint as an RI principal lasted only from 1963 to 1966 and I feel fortunate that my time in RI coincided with his tenure as a principal.

After RI, I wasn’t too keen to go on to university as I felt that I had studied more than enough. With my ‘A’ level certificate, I could have joined the police force. Two of my close friends had done that. My father insisted that I get a university degree though, and he didn’t really care what I read. I still remember his words: “Son, when I die, I will be leaving you nothing except the education I give you. I am not rich, but I will make all of you university graduates.”

I noted the steely determination in his voice even as I argued with him. If my father had relented, I suppose I’d be a retired policeman by now. I told my father that it would be difficult to travel all the way to Bukit Timah Road where the university campus was located. The journey to RI had taken about 90 minutes, and I couldn’t contemplate another long period with the same travel time. I demanded a car even though I didn’t have a driving licence yet. My father just kept quiet and reminded me to send in my university application forms.

It was a choice between business administration and law. Since I had no business acumen, I picked law and was accepted by the University of Singapore. When I showed my father the acceptance letter, he just smiled. A few days later, he bought me a car—a brand new Austin 1100. The registration number was SM 8788. I learnt he had withdrawn money from his CPF to buy it.

The next day, I hung two ‘L’ plates on the bumpers of the car and drove it around with my friend Ah Teng who had a licence. We were driving along very comfortably, radio blaring, until we turned into Mandai Road. We then ran head-on into a Malaysia-registered Peugeot. It was unbelievable. We weren’t travelling that fast. But Mandai Road used to be one of those long and winding roads where you can sometimes veer onto the wrong side of the road at the bends if you’re not careful.

As a driver with zero experience, I guess an accident was on the cards. Both cars were badly damaged and we went to Mandai police station to make a report. The occupants of the other car were an old lady and a very young and attractive girl who I learnt was the lady’s granddaughter. The old lady kept abusing me and blaming me for the accident. I remained silent. What else could I do? The young woman was embarrassed and told me that her grandmother was upset as their car was less than three months’ old. I sniggered and showed her the inside of my car. The plastic covers were still on the seats. When I told her my car was less than 24 hours old, she burst out laughing.

Despite the circumstances, I was taken by her and we exchanged telephone numbers. I had to give her Ah Teng’s number as we didn’t have a telephone at home in those days. The old lady saw what we were doing and her granddaughter explained that we needed each other’s phone numbers to exchange insurance details later. Her grandmother continued to glare at me throughout the whole episode. I dated the young woman, Shanti, on a few occasions but it didn’t work out. Ah Teng always said I deliberately caused the accident to befriend her.

After we were done at the police station, I was too scared to drive the damaged Austin home. So we went instead to Ah Teng’s house, left the car there and took his car to my place. Both of us were extremely worried about my father’s reaction. As usual, he was sitting at the corridor reading the Malayalam newspapers. When he saw me, he smiled. “Did you both enjoy driving the car?” he asked. We kept quiet. He studied my face and turned serious. “What is it, son? Why are you looking so worried?”

I told him that we had met with an accident and the car was damaged. I braced myself for a tongue lashing, but he only asked if Ah Teng and I were injured. Neither of us was. He laughed and said: “Son, it’s only a car. What is important is that the both of you are not hurt.” I will never forget that response. That’s the sort of example my father set for me, and it’s always been a hard act to follow.

The car was taken for repairs and I was told in no uncertain terms by everyone who cared for me to enrol in a driving school. But when you have had such an embarrassing accident, it tends to stick with you for years. People would jokingly refer to it all the time when the issue of driving or the topic of cars came up in our social or family gatherings. The ribbing got worse because, after taking a few lessons with Lambert Driving School, the instructor refused to give me any more lessons. He said I was a dangerous driver who drove as though there were no other cars on the road. The few lessons that I took had, however, given me confidence. Another good friend, Mark, took over the responsibility of teaching me to drive. After the accident, Ah Teng lost the nerve to teach me. I finally passed my driving test on my third attempt.

I started reading law at Singapore University in May, 1966. Before the course started, new students had to attend an interview with the sub-dean of the Law faculty, Mr Tommy Koh. At my interview, I met a former classmate from RI. She had also come for the same interview. When it was over, we foolishly decided to go to the Union House for a drink. As soon as we sat down and ordered our drinks, we knew we had made a big mistake. We were surrounded by senior students who were waiting for innocent ‘freshies’ to rag. They called it ‘orientation’ as ragging freshmen was illegal. Whatever name they put on it, it was bullying. You were asked to do very silly things to be humiliated. For instance, you had to stoop when you walked past a so-called senior gentleman who was shorter than you. Ragging officially started when the term began, but if you happened to be caught in the premises before the term started, your ‘orientation’ would begin immediately.