Remembering

It's amazing how the human memory works.

Had a mini gathering of sec one classmates today, with an impulsive switch in venue to our secondary school. There was a sign-in counter at the entrance, requiring some basic particulars, and after which the visitors would be issued a yellow round sticker on which was written the date of the day. One of us was late, who arrived upon our last teacher-graduate exchanges in the staffroom, now half-injected with new blood. In total, we came across one of our maths teacher and physics teacher, my physics and chem and english teachers, and at the end of the day paid a visit to the D&T room, still soaked with the scent of wood and the salty odour of metals. It's astonishing what teachers can and cannot remember. The D&T instructor can remember things like what house did a student belong to, the student's place of residence, pet phrase, and even craft pieces, partly because we were the more impressionable first batchers. The english-cum-sec two form could remember the excellent students and their particular areas of outstandingness. Then many teachers are bad with names and classes. One interesting aspect was how the female mother-cum-teachers sounded hoarser, of which was attributed to the little rascals at home who need 24-hour incessant nagging. Then there are teachers who looked exactly like what I remembered them to be, while there are also some who looked much more tired, with larger eyebags and more silver hair.

Then of course came the inevitable reliving of the scary tales we heard when young, and even today we felt some chills when we recalled the stories of the dark stairway and the moving figure in the painting. And there were flashes of running around the classrooms on the green slopes and recital for teachers' day and maintainence of the class balcony, the various dances- line, mass, family, workout- the songs, the canteen routines, the way the staffroom smelt- like chicken- the shortcuts to some parts of the school, the projects, the classrooms we occupied- tried too, but it was too hazy for me- music lessons and smelly shoes, the traumatizing lit lessons, the quibbles and petty quarrels- funny how we could be angry with each other everyday, trying to emphasize our respective territory when one got cross, like table-splitting- the favourite- and banned- haunts, the sports and extra classes like weiqi. The list can go on for eternity.

And of course, what we came for initially and ultimately, the food. Unforgettably tangy chilli on generous sprinkling of taugeys and 3 fishballed-noodles in a small orange bowl served by the quiet aunty same-looking uncle. The stewed taukwa and braised chicken- probably responsible for the perpetual stink of the staffroom-, the drink stall, the ice-cream, the alikeness of the girls to their great-great-great---grand seniors, bittersweet.

Had a great phototaking session, when we realised we are all creative and artistic and, ok, narcissistic. A small singing and dancing re-enactment, heart-warming.

Was amazed at how four of us, initially a teeny bit awkward with a jam in word-flow, could sputter with this much excitement and camaraderie and enjoyment of it all. We had a clearer picture of how life was then, with each of us remembering certain happenings, which could- fortunately- most of the times be identified with and collaberated by another one of us.

Made me think differently about many things.