Issue Four: December Special

⇜ An NUS Literary Society Publication ⟿

Masthead ________________________________________________________________

Isaac Tan, Editor-in-Chief _________________________________________________________________________________

Justin Tan, Executive Editor

_________________________________________________

Suranjana

Sengupta, Executive

Editor

_______________________________________________________

Feel free to contact us and tell us your thoughts at symbalmagazine@gmail.com !

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A philosophy and theatre studies major, Isaac founded

Symbal in 2011, when he joined NUS Literary Society,

in the hopes of promoting and encouraging budding

Singaporean writers.

He’s an enthusiast for all things artsy as he can be

seen hanging out in theatres, bookshops, museums

and galleries. He hopes to be a professional actor

someday and perhaps, in some possible world, a

flamenco dancer and a writer as well. In his meagre

spare time, he blogs at http://pre-lude.blogspot.sg

Justin is a political science major and literature minor.

He has served in the publications department of NUS

Literary Society since 2011, and thoroughly enjoys

reading every submission it receives. An orchestral

film-score junkie and inveterate dreamer, he professes

interest in any subject unclaimed by math and

formulae. In such time as he has at hand, Justin hopes

to be a writer, concept artist, amateur naturalist, and

photographer. He finds aesthetic wonder in almost any

environment, but is happiest amidst grand old

architecture or boundless, pensive scenery.

A Computer Engineering major, Suranjana joined the

NUS Literary Society in 2012, hoping to unite her love

for Literature with Science, along with meeting fellow

students who share similar interests. As a reflective

poet and a passionate writer, she enjoys reading

everything from Early Medieval Literature to

Contemporary Fiction. She loves Nature, Classical

Music and just about anything to do with History. She

also has an earnest interest in Mathematics, Physics

and Astronomy. Although Suranjana aspires to follow a

career in Computer Engineering, she also cherishes the

goal of becoming a well-known author one day. During

her tenure with NUS LitSoc, she hopes to participate

actively in Literary Events in hope of encouraging

innovative works of fiction, poetry and plays.

Special Thanks.

That felicitous patchwork kaleidoscope on our cover page

might look as if it’d been borne aloft by the autumn

winds; whirled and buffeted over vast tracts of hushed

country before alighting upon the editors’ desk. As with

all the works featured in Symbal it has an author,

however – and a story to tell. All that one has to do is

look, and permit the mind to soar…

~ Cover art: Colours by Tan Xiang Yeow

Tan Xiang Yeow is a Singaporean currently pursuing his

undergraduate studies at the National University of Singapore. He

currently shares his thoughts and art at www.art-xy.com.

SYMBAL MAGAZINE The December 2012 Special

Editorial Musings

Morning Rituals

Artistic Expression

Laurel and Front

The carpet has been stealing

Lee Zhi Xin

The Woman from Jepara

Litany

Tse Hao Guang

Mindtune

Mabel Chan

Mindtune – Reality Version

Loh Soon Hui

Little Shu and Old Ma

Michele Lim

A Review of In My Mother’s House

Isaac Tan

Announcements

Submission Guidelines

-⋄ Editorial Musings ⋄-

Congratulations, all! We’ve made it thus far, and the world has

not ended. Considering all the fuss (in inexplicably good cheer, for the most

part!), don’t be too hard on yourself if you cringed inwardly when the 21st

dawned. The folks in the NUS Literary Society are not the sort to leave things

to chance, and we got worried enough to assemble this special ‘mini’ edition

of our online publication; ready for release upon the slightest hint of Earth-

clobbering ruin. For how could we allow the world to end without sharing as

many new literary pieces as possible? In this we have only you, our readers,

to thank. Your presence and your submissions make Symbal possible.

Speaking of the end of days, it is no secret that much of life’s

value derives from its very transience. The apocalyptic notion therefore

stands to induce macabre but mawkishly beautiful contemplation. Certainly

it gives us pause and turns our attention upon such things in life as we find

truly valuable. In the face of routine existence even a moment of such

pondering can work wonders to remind ourselves of who we are, why we do

what we do, and whether things would best be changed. Of course it can also

cast you into a pit of despair… but that is merely the other extreme.

Now, one of my guiltily trite indulgences – something I’d rather

like to invite everyone to consider – is the question of where one would most

rather be two days before it all ends. I propose two days because most of us

would probably dedicate the last one wholly to friends and family… which

isn’t particularly good for being in a place one would most rather be, because

no two individuals share quite the same opinion on the matter (if you see

what I mean).

Anyhow, where would you rather be? Sometimes this takes a jot

of imagination. Though our partialities change throughout our lives I

suppose that I, for the moment at least, wish to be in the night sky gliding

behind a bird. Does this sound absurd? Perhaps you’re wondering if I

wouldn’t go plummeting into oblivion, but with the end of the world

approaching let us give verisimilitude the rest it deserves.

As to the bird, I don’t rightly know what manner of avian he is –

pelican, stork, or albatross – but it won’t do to look too much into it. It is

enough to note that he is eight feet from wingtip to wingtip, that his plumage

glints sleek and silver-white in the depths of night. I can see him suspended

effortlessly above a calm, flat, moonlit sea. Not a feather upon his noble

frame stirs: vulgar flapping is for the pigeons and the crows.

Well this deity of the skies soars on amid his shimmering

curtains of stars, his titanic mansions of cloud, and I am more than content

to tag along. One cannot know how old he is, how many times he’s circled

the globe and how many things he’s seen. He is a brave one, this creature…

but he is as lonely as he is brave. At any rate he must not ever look back. We

seek a tiny island now, lost out there beneath that great blue moon; the night

is young, and it is to be the first of many stops on our voyage. Upon that isle

there is just room enough for a tree, and when I finally tire I will set myself to

rest in the pastel shade of its fine, softly rustling leaves; spread my limbs in

sweet exhaustion upon grass that grows between its roots as if a thick, cool

rug. A hint of mist will curl at my toes, and as I gaze out across the sea I

fancy I’ll be able see every ripple that caresses its immense, silent expanse.

…thank you for bearing with me. Places like these live within us

all, and no two of them are the same. This, of course, can only testify to the

incredible richness and variety of the human experience. All the more

discomfiting, then, to remember just how little we seem to matter amid the

untold vastness of the cosmos. Human egomania and centeredness are

forces to reckon with, and it is easy to forget that doomsday for us need not

be doomsday for anything remotely significant to the universe. As we are

nothing to the Earth, so is the Earth nothing to the solar system; and so is

the solar system, in turn, nothing to the Milky Way (and the Milky Way

nothing to galactic clusters and the universe as a whole). As Ian Malcolm

would assert, even the Earth lives and breathes on a much vaster scale than

we do, chronologically or otherwise. It has survived environmental calamities

far worse than what we credit ourselves with, and it will certainly not miss us

when we are gone. Nor will the galaxy miss the Earth, should any trivial

cosmic accident dispatch it tomorrow. Not when you’d need a million Earths

to fill a space the size of the sun, and somewhere in the region of seven

billion suns to do likewise for the largest known star.

In short, then: humanity is incredibly small, incredibly transient,

incredibly vulnerable, and perhaps just as objectively unremarkable. The

world is really so much more than our everyday perspectives. We are but

another frail narrative thread in the grand scheme of things, and on an

island as small as Singapore, in a region as provincial as Southeast Asia, on

a planet as modest as Earth, in a neighbourhood as ordinary as the solar

system… this can be a challenge to see.

So what, you ask, is my point? Is it to belittle said human

experience, and in doing so dismiss literature – our collective record of it?

Well, all I really hope to support is a dash of enlightening,

liberating humility… as well as the understanding that the very fragility of

our race makes everything we achieve just that more precious. If life were

forever, we would not treasure it; if humanity were everything, we would not

matter. For better or worse, this is how things are appraised. I daresay we

are valuable because our kind is unique, and can be lost all too easily. Our

egotism often leads us to such intellectual barriers as the SETI-dogging

carbon chauvinism (the parochial conviction that life anywhere else has to

stem from that element and, by extension, require such Earthly things as

liquid water and temperatures on the lower half of the Celsius scale). It also

obliges us to impose any number of unabashedly human physical and

emotional traits on hypothetical aliens in our journals and fiction. This is all

very well, but it does not change how overwhelmingly likely it is that our

demise would take with it every trace of what would pass today as human.

…except, of course, the things we leave behind. Sweeping,

decaying cityscapes swiftly assimilating into the landscape. Dark, silent

satellites with steadily deteriorating orbits… fields of space trash. Maybe the

odd ‘unbreakable’ smartphone case.

How would extra-terrestrial archaeologists judge the primitive

technology they’d supposedly unearth? Technical accomplishment is ever-so-

important, but there is no copyright for it. It can really only go forwards (or

backwards, come to that). It is good or bad, archaic or relevant. It is a means

to an end, and any alien civilisation may seek and surpass it.

Not so, with art. Human art cleaves to a unique, one-off mould

that shall never be replicated. So no, if the world were to end I will not mourn

for the devices that haven’t been invented. I will mourn for the stories that

haven’t been told, the symphonies that haven’t been written, the paintings

that’ll never see light, the plays and musicals that will never hear applause.

This is why the aesthetics are precious.

Every motif composed, every stanza penned, every tribal mask

painted, every cathedral carved and pieced stone-by-stone over decades…

these comprise our heritage. They, as with our emotions, help make each one

of us much more than a fellowship of molecules working in sentient concert

for the fleeting span of a human life. And I am proud of that heritage; we all

are, after our own fashion. It heartens me that those at the forefront of SETI

are realising this, that they are incorporating music and artwork into radio

messages beamed across the galaxy. Yes, the likes of Beethoven, Vivaldi,

Gershwin, sundry cultural songs, the Beatles – they are playing in the

darkness of interstellar space. They may take tens of thousands of years to

get anywhere, though. Truth be told, they look set to outlive us all. The same

goes for the ‘Golden Records’: phonograph music and images enshrined in

the forlorn, aptly-named Voyager probes. Let us hope any audience they

might conceivably reach bears no resemblance to the Independence Day

variety.

“This is a present from a small, distant world, a token of our sounds, our

science, our images, our music, our thoughts and our feelings. We are

attempting to survive our time so we may live into yours.”

- US President Jimmy Carter, of the Golden Records

Allow us the honour, then, of introducing a handful of new

pieces that contribute (however subtly, and in whichever way their authors

intended) to that aforementioned human heritage. The smallest collection of

prose and poetry can speak volumes and go places. We are fortunate to be

able to share one with you.

Justin Tan

Executive Editor

24th December, 2012

Morning Rituals

In the dim of the morning,

my roommate stands in front

of the full-length mirror.

I wish I could draw my eyes

the way she can,

But I am always late for class

the back of my hair

flattened from my bed.

- Lee Zhi Xin

Artistic Expression

It is like

a dotted line,

I tell my hand,

which wields

an eyeliner.

But it is

an artist,

it tells me,

who must

break out of

boundaries.

- Lee Zhi Xin

Laurel and Front

A woman stands on the corner

of Laurel and Front,

Her ear bobbing

as she examines the inside

of her takeout box,

Gives the flap a last lick

before dropping it in the bin.

- Lee Zhi Xin

The carpet has been stealing

How many hairpins have dropped

on the grey carpet?

Today I picked up yet another,

gleaming too much

to camouflage.

- Lee Zhi Xin

Lee Zhi Xin loves the plush dripdrop of words, and the flicker of scenes in the

resulting puddle. An alumni of the Creative Arts Programme, she has been

published in its annual anthology, Eye on the World, in 2009 and 2011. She was

the winner of the Singapore Lit Up! Poetry Writing Competition (Category D) in 2009

and sampad's international writing competition, Journeys, in 2010. She also

received a commendation in Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2009 and Poems on the

Underground 2010. She sometimes blogs in http://melodily.wordpress.com and

would not bite if you said hi.

The Woman from Jepara

From the same soil that nourished

the hardiest, most beautiful teak

in all the land grew the woman

from Jepara. Destined to cook and

clean, a rich lineage and a loving

father educated her for twelve

years. Then she brought herself up

like no cash crop could, letters

flying back and forth across seas;

her alphabet diaspora tended by

pen-friend gardeners burst into

full flower. "From darkness into

light", she uncurled like a fern and

dreamt of building schools. But

teak does not unfurl—grafted as

one of several wives to fulfill the

last wishes of a loving father she

passed away one year later at

twenty-five. A glass house was

built to honour her possessions

and highlight important people in

her life. Oils of various local men

sit next to illegible letters from

Dutch pen-friends. I guess there's

little sense in making paper out of

teak when it is almost always used

in furniture—chairs, a matrimonial

bed, a sewing-machine stand.

- Tse Hao Guang

Litany

There are many mantras in the

blade of a kris. A kris might move

about, might stand on its tip if

possessed by a strong spirit. A

strong spirit is trapped through

the deployment of many mantras.

There are many mantras in the

blade of a kris

- Tse Hao Guang

Hao Guang is interested in form and formation, creativity and quotation, lyrics and line

breaks. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ceriph, Coast, QLRS, OF ZOOS, The

Ayam Curtain, This City is a Strange Song, Microcosmos, After | Thought and LONTAR.

He is involved in the Mentor Access Project under the guidance of Alvin Pang. A

chapbook, hyperlinkage, is forthcoming from Math Paper Press. He can be found online at

www.vituperation.wordpress.com

~ Mindtune ~

It was her third time visiting this corridor.

She knew it because everything was in the right place. The

wall was lined with oil paintings of herself, and right behind

her was her bed, taking up the whole width of the corridor,

illuminated in a faint glow that allowed visibility in such

dark surroundings. She turned around and crawled up on

the bed, feeling its sinking softness beneath her hands and

knees. It was with some difficulty that she scrabbled to her

pillow – for her bed was simply so soft she couldn’t quite

reach the other end – but the moment she rested her head

the bed began moving. Her body jerked suddenly; the bed

was falling forward. Goodness, and she had been looking

forward to a good rest too. But of course, why was she

sleeping? It was time for school. She could not be late.

Maybe she ought to climb out of the bed and get to school

quickly. It would be terrible to be late. She had never been

late for school before, except for perhaps one or two

occasions which she could not remember at the present

moment. But the bed was falling and showed no sign of

stopping. Surely it was dangerous to try to get out of a free-

falling bed? She started to feel very anxious. Her heart

raced. Could she phone the school to inform them she

would be late? But where was her phone? It wasn’t under

her pillow. She didn’t need to feel for it to know it wasn’t

under her pillow.

“Mum! Mum!” Calling out for Mum always worked. Except

for some reason she couldn’t hear her own voice, but it did

not matter as long as Mum could hear. “Mum, toss my

phone down here please! I must call the school to tell them

I’ll be late!”

She could have sworn the prison wardress had turned her

head. Shouting was not allowed in jail, for obvious reasons.

She couldn’t remember why she had shouted, but she was

very relieved the wardress did not seem to have heard, or

else she would be caught and flung into the pool, where she

had nearly drowned back when she was six years old. She

sat on the dusty cement floor, as still as she could, trying

not to breathe. If she was inconspicuous, they wouldn’t

pick on her. She had succeeded so far, for the past few

days. She had hardly breathed a word even though her

black-and-white stripy pyjamas were stinking. Houseflies

were buzzing around her long black hair, which was so long

and untended it reached down below her shoulders. Once

in a while she could hear the irritating buzzing noise.

“Eeeeeee,” the houseflies said.

People began trooping into her prison cell, books in hand.

She was starting to worry that she had lost her books, but

when she looked down she was relieved to find they had

been in her hands all along. The books were thin, mouldy

and red, and had the picture of a girl and an old woman

doing something she couldn’t discern. The title of the books

read “Civics and Moral Education” or something like that.

The letters were mysteriously blurry.

“Today, we want to learn about repentance,” said the deep

booming voice in her head. It was a man’s voice, but the kind

that must have been amplified by some sort of audio system

because people didn’t naturally have such deep booming

voices. She had always found the voice odd, the way he spoke.

“Today we want to learn about” sounded like a pretty awkward

topic opener to her. She certainly didn’t want to learn about

any of these, but school was school. People always learnt

useless things in school.

“Today we want to learn about regret and apology, and other

emotions that you are supposed to feel after you have done

wrong,” added the voice. “As good citizens of the country, who

will serve society and contribute to the benefit of the nation,

mistakes are inevitable but we have to learn from them and

know that we have done wrong. We have to feel shame and

want to atone for our mistakes. This is the good response to

have after we have done wrong.”

The voice was switching from second-person to first-person

narrative. She wondered vaguely what it signified, but

dismissed it as unimportant to the message.

“Atoning for our mistakes will purge us of the feeling of guilt

that we should have, and will also be fruitful to the country.

We can start by working at the shops that we stole from,

receiving no pay. We can run errands for the people whose

pockets we picked. This will reduce the sense of shame that

we have.”

Those sounded like good ideas. Yes, she would get to doing

that after school. It would reduce her sense of shame, which

she hadn’t been aware of before the lesson began, but was

now burning in her chest like acid backflow. She needed to

purge it to get better.

“We did wrong, and made people sad. This is bad for our family,

bad for society, bad for the government which has pinned great

hopes on us. Think of the people we are affecting with our

thoughtless acts.”

She had never thought of it this way before.

“We can stop ourselves. We can atone for our past actions. We

can do even better things to prove that we are not beyond hope.

We should-”

She couldn’t listen anymore. Her vision was black and the voice

was getting increasingly softer. She clutched her chest, trying in

vain to squeeze out the burning sensation. Her guilt was simply

too strong! She couldn’t steal anymore. She couldn’t do all those

stuff she did, or else the guilt might just swallow her alive. And

she couldn’t die, because she needed to prove herself to the

country. In fact, why didn’t she get to that right now?

The shop was empty, save for the shelves of CD-ROMs and game

cartridges. The shopkeeper was a woman with the word

SHOPKEEPER written on her forehead.

“I’m Tammara Howe,” she told the shopkeeper, feeling

embarrassed that she was still in her smelly prison uniform, but

at least the houseflies had left her hair. “I’m here to work.”

- Mabel Chan

Mabel is 1 of the 2 vice-presidents of the Literary Society, though most likely not chosen for her

writing ability. She has mainly roleplaying experience on forums, and thus enjoys writing

short pieces. She has only contributed once to Symbal and is deeply ashamed, and will try to

write some more if the faceless editors do not mind. She can write in any genre and is keen to

experiment, and would greatly appreciate feedback and criticism, even though they tend to

make her feel forlorn for a few days. She suggests that everyone in the world should read

Anne Tyler.

~ Mindtune: Reality Version ~

So much paperwork to get through.

Gideon typed at his keyboard blearily, pausing occasionally

to rub at his eyes or to sip from the mug of coffee that has

long gone cold. He shivered and grabbed one of the wads of

spent tissue littering the desk to blow his nose with. The

room was freezing and smelled faintly of socks and mildew. It

was also dark; the lights were necessarily switched off, as his

colleague was fast asleep in the adjoining room. The only

sources of luminance in this dark little space were the twelve

flat screens arranged in a neat array on the wall before him,

and it was these forty-inch screens that he now regarded.

Each display was a window into a different space, each of

which housed a solitary subject. Roughly between 12-20

years of age, each of them was undergoing a process of

rehabilitation. The process varied for each of them, of course.

After all, every one of them was there for a different reason.

Just as different diseases required different treatments, and

different crimes necessitated different punishments.

Right in the centre of the array, 19-year-old Tammara Howe

was dutifully rearranging the shelves and sorting through the

merchandise of the very shop where she had attempted to

steal from. A quick scan of her profile informed him that it

had been her first offence, so he did not imagine that she

would be here for too long, only long enough to create a

lasting impression in her mind. Likely only a week more,

although it will seem like months to her.

To the left of Tammara’s display was 13-year-old Richard

Newtown. His crime: bullying. His penance: to perform acts

of kindness in one classroom setting after another for his

fellow students. Currently, young Richard was being

thanked by one of his faceless classmates after helping said

classmate with a math question. As Gideon watched, the

perspective zoomed in on the ex-bully’s plump face. He

seemed dazed, as though in a trance, but then so did the

others.

Then there was Mill Beleren, tucked away at the leftmost

edge. According to the report, the 16-year-old teenager

suffered from acute depression and had attempted suicide

more than once. Gideon wasn’t privy to the full report, so

he wasn’t certain how or why. However, The Powers That

Be had apparently decided that poor Mill’s interests would

be better served if only he had a robust, spiritual belief to

guide him and so they had designed a religious form of

therapy instead. Christianity, with its strong views on the

sanctity of life and its purposeful doctrine, was selected

after due consideration. The audio feeds from the

recordings were turned off, but from what Gideon could

see, Mill was in the middle of a confessional with the

Reverend program.

Gideon wondered if Mill’s parents would be surprised when

their son returned to them a staunch Christian, but what

did he know? He was just an assistant here after all. Maybe

they’ll be happy simply to be able to get their son back safe

and sound and normalized.

Yawning suddenly, he turned his attention back to his duty

report. Since nothing had changed since the past 24 hours,

he would just copy the relevant passages from the previous

report and be done with it.

The subject, Mill Beleren, exhibited minimal deviance from the

projected behavior as hypothesized in the TURNING model.

The subject is compliant. The learning schedule is valid for at

least another 48 hours. Further review recommended at

20/12/2018, 0300 hrs (UTC -08:00).

With that and a couple of edits, he was done. All that was left

was to upload the file into the patient registry and to print a

hard copy, sign on it and put it away for filing. Slightly more

energized now that his work was finished, Gideon checked

the digital clock on his desktop. Fifteen minutes before his

partner’s turn to take over the shift. Enough time to grab a

quick bite from the sandwich machine.

While his sandwich was being heated up, he distracted

himself by staring at the noticeboard next to the vending

machines. There were information brochures, excerpts from

journals and newspaper clippings. Headlines and headings

jumped out at him. Virtual Reality Breaks Into Gaming

Market. VR Gaming Equipment may have therapeutic

possibilities, psychologists claim. Shooting in School kills 28.

Mental Illness and Violence. Youth Violence: A Malaise of Our

Times. A New Form of Psychological Therapy? Violence as a

Public Health Problem.

He shivered and rubbed his hands together. The air-

conditioning in the corridor was very strong, much more so

than the room had been. He could hear the humming of the

system working to circulate the air throughout the building.

The logic of dreams, if logic is the right word, is vastly

different from the logic of reasoning and of reality. Highly

particular to the individual, understanding one’s dreams could

provide a means of understanding the workings of the mind.

What makes it tick? What makes it sick? There are-

Twenty seconds more. A transcript from an interview with a

Ryodai Kurisu.

The issue that psychologists face is that we are twice

removed from the core of the being. We are separated from

the sub-consciousness by the layer that is the conscious

mind. And then there’s the whole difficulty in that we can’t

access the mind directly, the brain, yes, but not the mind, so

we have to resort to external cues like body language,

interviews, behavior and so on. Which are all roundabout

ways of getting at the psyche. But dreams-

With a small shudder, the sandwich was finally deposited

into the chute. As Gideon gingerly juggled it between his

fingers and teased open the paper packaging, his focus was

snagged on the title of another paper.

René Descartes and Mind-Body Dualism. He stopped reading

there.

Making his way back into Dendrite, he bit into the sandwich

without thinking, and spat it back out promptly when it

scalded his tongue and cursed.

We must not swear nor use profanities. It is offensive to

others and degrades he who utters them. Civility is the

bedrock of society…

Gideon shook his head unsteadily. It was really late and he

was fatigued. It was time to sleep. He wondered what would

he dream about tonight.

***

He had been successfully rehabilitated.

That was what the counselors had told him before they let

him leave the centre. “But for what?” he had asked, but they

merely smiled and told him not to concern himself about the

matter anymore.

- Loh Soon Hui

Soon Hui is the current president of the Literary Society. He loves cats, running and asking people to write his bios for him. He can take hours or even days to write a sizeable passage, but once he gets started words flow from him like water from a tap badly in need of plumbing. His greatest dream in life is to be able to watch every film in history. He likes to sound posh, so he calls himself a film “consumer” and uses words like “perfunctory” on a regular basis.

~ Little Shu and Old Ma ~

My name is Little Shu and I kill crocodiles for a living. They hide in our rain canals, hissing and snapping their snouts, waiting for the next person to throw himself in. You see, there’s been a new fad, a game really, where youngsters place bets to see who can prove the existence of Old Ma, the grandmother lizard who’s said to have been haunting our watery catacombs for centuries; impossible, since the city is built on reclaimed land. But I digress. In this game, the kid who gets the short end of the stick has to venture down into the heart of the city’s underground drain network. They are forbidden to return until they’ve retrieved a scale from Old Ma’s flaking skin. Needless to say, if you have any brains you could probably sniff out why this game’s so damned stupid: there is no Old Ma. But young people don’t have brains, see. That’s why I’ve got my job: I keep crocodiles from eating those screaming nitwits by keeping them well out of the way of each other. I reside in a hammock, tied precariously between a pair of parallel ladders that lead to dead ends; expired manholes long patched over with bitumen up-top. Faint electric lamps illuminate the tunnels, their tiny wires webbing the concrete walls like ivy. My uniform is a loose grey leather shift that dries easily when hung. Slipping it on, I fire up my modified Swiss knife, and, after clipping it to my waist, slide quietly into the dark fetid shallows. My fingernails are thick and sharp, and I use them to gain purchase on the slippery tunnel interiors that have grown soft and crumbly with brown moss.

There had been no major incidents in years, ‘til that one time. I’d just finished chasing away a young croc when I heard someone shout. It was a boy. His screams reverberated like the screeches of a million hell-spirits storming downstream. In response, three large crocodiles came a-crashing, gnashing their yellow teeth. (They’re curious creatures, you see.) I looked about wildly for the source, and found him standing just metres away. His eyes were wide, slack jaws trembling as he pointed shakily behind me. I turned, knife brandished, but found only my shadow. In the hazy light, my diminutive frame had been amplified. Plastered to the wall, an enormous grey hag bared its fangs, its pelvis fusing with the thrashing limbs of the nearest reptilian monster. “Old Ma,” stammered the youth. Before I could reply, the nearest misbehaving animal snapped at my shoulder, and I turned and smacked it across its tiny eyes. By the time I was done taming the beasts, the boy was gone, and so was a sizeable portion of my uniform. His feverish victory chants echoed quietly down the tunnels – I got it! I got it! – as his bare feet and hands slapped wetly up the nearest ladder, scrambled to the surface, and pushed the groaning lid back into place.

- Michele Lim

Michele is in her third year as an English literature major at the National University of Singapore. Her favourite genre, by a wide margin, is fantasy/sf, and when she can she spends her free time reading, watching, and writing similarly themed fiction.

~ A Review of In My Mother’s House ~

By Isaac Tan, Editor-in-Chief

I find it difficult to review Joni Cham’s debut novel. The back cover

of the book is filled with high praises by esteemed judges who

awarded her book a special jury prize. What can I, a mere

sophomore who is not even reading Literature, offer that would be

of any value? On the other hand, when I flipped the cover and look

at the title page, I am reminded by Joni, in a little note that

accompanies her autograph, to “be nice.” So what am I to do?

Thankfully, I just needed to be sincere in my responses.

This novel is a treat. To be honest, the first chapter appears as a

standard exploration of strained mother-daughter relationship as

well as a search for identity. Coming from a country who is

constantly in search of an identity, I thought it would be ‘one-of-

those-books’ and I just have to grin and bear it as I had to “be

nice.” Thankfully, the chapters that ensue stand as a brilliant

testament to Cham as a novelist.

While the book is focused on Nina returning to care for her dying

mother as she is constantly reminded of incidents in her

childhood, the novel also deals with other characters well. From

Yaya Pasing (the family’s nanny) to Ayi (Nina’s aunty), these

characters were not merely there to uncover more of Nina’s

character but they stand well as characters in their own right. As

a reader unfamiliar to the Chinese community in the Philippines,

the interactions between these characters proved to be valuable as

they often serve as a social commentary and it gives us a little

insight into the Philippines.

As for the treatment of Nina, the complexity of her character is

not developed through the readers merely finding out more

about her past as the story unfurls. Instead, one is given a

kaleidoscopic view of Nina as she is reflected and refracted in all

sorts of directions throughout the novel. This is done through

the seamless meanderings between the past and present as the

readers will be faced with two narratives running at the same

time. This is certainly Cham’s crowning achievement in writing

this novel as it was easy to follow the two narratives and the

transitions between the two were often done creatively – not

always depending on Nina seeing something or an incident being

casually mentioned for the flashback to happen. This multi-

faceted portrayal of Nina also means that the various sides of

the character may not necessarily form a coherent whole. I saw

this when I found myself being unconvinced by Nina’s reasons

for her actions at the end of the novel. As such, the choice to

develop Nina in such a way is not only an avenue to display

Cham’s skill in handling the narratives of the past and present

but it makes the novel even more intriguing.

Cham also proves to be adept at the use of images and

metaphors in which some are constantly developed throughout

the novel. The most striking of them all would be the religious

images. These were used to emphasis Nina’s sense of guilt as a

child for unfortunate occurrences as well as to highlight the

inherent tension between mother and daughter since her mother

is a Buddhist while Nina identifies with Christian images as a

child due to the influence of her nanny. This became a tool not

only to emphasis on the obvious themes but one that also

explores the psychology of Nina.

On the whole, the novel is truthful in its portrayal as readers

cannot help themselves but to be drawn into Nina as a person.

Sympathies for Nina would be easily offered as we learn of her

troubled childhood, her sense of self-blame and the struggle to

break away from the grips of her domineering mother. Yet, some

of it may be withheld towards the end of the novel thus leaving

us in a very ambiguous relationship with Nina. This certainly

makes for a good read and Cham’s current position is certainly

not an enviable one as anyone who has read In My Mother’s

House will carry rather high hopes for the next novel that she

writes. The only regretful thing about it is that it is not easily

available in Singapore because anyone who is interested in

Asian literature should pick up a copy.

To find more about Joni Cham, visit

https://www.facebook.com/jonilimcham?fref=ts

If you would like to order a copy of the book, feel free to contact

the author through her Facebook page via the link above.

Intrigued by the premise of her book, I interviewed Joni when

she visited us in August to promote her book.

How did you start to write the novel?

JC: My pre-writing stage consists of producing an outline for the

novel which served as a proposal for my thesis. (Editor’s note: In

My Mother’s House is Joni’s thesis for her Masters in Fine Art).

Once the pre-writing stage is done, I started by writing scenes I

wanted in the book. After which, I’ll make revisions, rearrange

them and rewrite the portions in between. In my first draft,

chapter 2 was the first chapter. However, as I was writing the

next few drafts, I felt that something was missing and decided to

add the first chapter you now see in the book.

In the midst of writing, I realised that the novel I wanted to write

was very different from the outline and decided to deviate from

it. However, the outline was still important as it served to clarify

my thoughts when writing.

Where do you draw your inspirations from in creating the

characters as well as writing about tensions between mother and

daughter?

JC: Inspiration comes from a variety of places. The strong female

characters were created out of combining various aspects of

myself and people that I know but none of the characters are

exact copies of anyone in real life. It is important to fictionalise

these things because one can only write clearly after

internalising any raw emotions one is tapping into as a distance

is created yet authenticity is preserved. This is an important

lesson that I learnt from my thesis advisor at the time.

As for portraying a tensed mother-daughter relationship, it is

similar process that I just described. As children, we may

occasionally come into conflict with our parents and we know

how that feels. So this portrayal comes from experience and the

stories of others. All I had to do was to extrapolate from there

and create this intense relationship that you see in the novel.

Is writing a cathartic experience for you?

JC: In a way, yes. When I was writing certain scenes, I had to

stop after the scene was done and cry my heart out. While the

scenes may not have happened to me in real life, I know how it

feels. I felt that I could continue writing once the crying has

stopped. As such, the writing process has allowed me to purge

any raw emotions that I bring into the novel.

What are some of the difficulties of being Chinese in the

Philippines?

JC: As children, we weren’t allowed to socialise with non-

Chinese children and were not allowed out of the house most of

the time. So I grew up with very different experiences from

others. I was not aware of it at the time but was shocked to find

out as I matured.

Aside from family dynamics, the main difficulty is that people

always perceive the Chinese in Philippines to be rich. And people

will treat you differently for that. But it gets better after a while.

As with other places, cultural misunderstandings are common.

Which writer influenced your style the most?

JC: I would say Charlson Ong. He writes a great deal about the

Chinese-Filipino experience. Reading him not only informed me

how to write but it told me that it is possible to write a story

based on a Chinese-Filipino theme; something that I am familiar

with and from which I can produce a work that is credible.

Unfortunately, his readership is rather a niche one and I wished

he could gain more recognition that he is currently getting.

Some people often jokingly say that I could be the next Amy Tan

of the Philippines. While I admire her work, I would prefer to be

myself.

Is the mother-daughter theme an important one in Filipino

literature?

JC: Not really. Politics would be a more popular theme. I tried

adding some political elements to the novel but it wasn’t very

successful. So I decided to stick to what I know best.

What are the difficulties of being a Chinese-Filipino writer whose

works are written in English?

JC: The main thing is that there aren’t many Chinese-Filipino

writers around. There are so many languages and vernaculars

being spoken in the Philippines which result in us only having a

niche readership. However, I’m glad that there now seems to be

resurgence in the promotion of regional writing. More often than

not, we have to make a name for ourselves overseas before being

recognised here. Aside from these factors, the biggest difficulty

lies in the fact that literature is seen as a luxury since 30% of

the population is stricken with poverty.

Did your experience as a China analyst influence the way you

view yourself as a Chinese. If so, is this change in your concept of

being Chinese reflected in the novel?

JC: That’s a tough question. In the Philippines, I feel more

Chinese but I can still blend in as I have a dark complexion. In

China, I feel more Filipino as I realised that the Chinese practice

at home is very different from China. It’s hard to say how my

concept of Chinese-ness changed has but I am aware of the

differences in terms of cultural practice.

But my stint in China also made me realise that the problems

Philippines face occurs there as well. As such, I became more

attuned to human nature rather than cultural differences.

Another interesting titbit from my time in China is that there

seems to be a premium placed on knowing English; people who

do are accorded some kind of prestige. This is somewhat similar

to the Philippines and I wonder if China will start speaking

English in the long run.

As for how it’s reflected in my novel, I am not really sure. But

my experiences in China would be an interesting resource for

future novels.

Finally, what advice would you give for aspiring writers out there?

JC: Three things:

1. Read a lot – read what you enjoy; books, magazines,

websites, newspapers. But it is important not to stick to the

simple stuff. Do not be afraid to read stuff that seems to be

too difficult for you. It’s also important to read for pleasure

and technique.

2. Go out and live life – Be adventurous and experience as

much as you can. This will be an important resource for

your writing. Having said that, please exercise some

discretion; do not be overly adventurous at the expense of

your own safety.

3. Just write – It’s not enough to talk about how much you

want to write. You need to sit down, face the blank screen

(easier said than done... but trust me on this) and just write.

Don’t be intimidated by the blank screen or the quality of

your first draft. The work needs to come out before revisions

can be made.

_______________________________________________________________

Announcements

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Calling all NUS students! – ever thought you could use a

couple shades more motivation to keep writing during your

semesters? If so, do keep an eye out for our regular series of

writing competitions! Stacks of Kinokuniya vouchers are for

the taking, as well as the opportunity to recite (and plug!)

your work in reading sessions towards the end of each

semester. All winning submissions will also be guaranteed

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have comments on layout, aesthetics and how to make this

magazine awesome, write us at symbalmagazine@gmail.com

Submission Guidelines

Submission of Literary Works

Symbal welcomes works from NUS undergraduate and

graduate students, staff, students from other tertiary

institutions (local junior colleges, polytechnics and other

universities) and even those who are serving their national

service. Unlike other publications, we welcome any kind of

work that is of literary value regardless of whether it is poetry,

prose, dramatic extract, commentaries or treatises.

Due to space constraints, however, we would like the writers

to observe the following guidelines:

Poetry – Any form of poetry is welcomed but do keep it within

a page of the word document.

Prose – Any genre is acceptable but do try to keep the word

count between 500-2500. If you would like to submit a longer

piece of work such as a novella, please provide us with a

summary of your work (and the full text, if possible). Do bear

in mind that it will be serialised when you are writing this

piece.

Dramatic Extract – It should consist of no more than 2 scenes.

It is advisable that the scenes should for the most part be able

to stand on their own (i.e. the reader should be able to make

out what is generally going on as well as the relationship(s)

between the characters). Of course, if you would like to submit

a monologue, you are more than welcome to do so.

Submission Guidelines

Commentaries/Treatises: Kindly keep to the word limit of

not more than 2500 words. Do note that it must be

relevant to the literary arts; expositions on a particular

book/author, commentaries on the state of literature in

the country/education system or even reflections on a

particular literary event are accepted.

As we aim to give budding writers a platform to showcase

their works, we will accept submissions that have already

been published or entered in competitions as long as they

do not contravene any guideline of the other party. Do

note that it is your sole responsibility to ensure this.

Should we come to the knowledge that you have

contravened the guidelines of another publication or

organisation, we will remove your work immediately. By

the same token, we are fine with you submitting the same

work to other publications or competitions as long as the

other party is fine with it.

Symbal reserves first serial and anthology rights. We may

also consider publishing your work in other mediums, but

will contact you in advance for approval. We will not

publish or modify your work without seeking your

consent.

Submission Guidelines

Submission of photographs/illustrations

What is a magazine without some pictures or illustrations? If

you would like an avenue to showcase your artistic skills,

Symbal is a great place to do so! We welcome all forms of

photos, drawings and paintings. Do bear in mind that at the

moment, such submissions will be included in the publication

only if it is relevant to the theme or fits a particular work, as

there is no space set aside to curate such works. However, do

check back on the submission guidelines from time to time as

there might be a section calling for such works in the future.

Similarly, your submission will be an indication of your

agreement to allow us the rights to retain the pictures (which

will still be credited to you) as well as to edit it to suit the

publication.

How to Submit

Send all your works to symbalmagazine@gmail.com. The

subject title should be prefaced as follows: “Submissions: <title

of work>”. Please submit your works in the body of the email or

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personal biography of about 50 – 100 words to the email.

Should you have further enquiries, kindly write to us via the

same email address and preface the subject heading with

“Enquiries: <area of concern>”.

We seek your cooperation in following this template so as to

allow us to sort the mail easily. Thank you.

Alas… that is all we have for this Special.

Stay tuned, though, for our February issue is

in the offing! It will feature winning pieces

from the Creative Writing Competition (CWC)

2012.

In the meantime we highly encourage all our

readers to write on – as always, it is our goal

to provide a stable platform upon which you

may feature your work.

The NUS Literary Society wishes all an

agreeable, rewarding year ahead!