The Blue Lotus magazine Special Issue 5 by martin bradley

Lotus The Blue

Issue 26, Spring 2021

SPECIAL ISSUE 5

Peter Abram Kakada Yi Dillai Joseph Pan Yuliang Nadeesh Prabou Fadilah Karim Kannu Behera Martin Bradley Sunil Sigdel Sean Thow Pratiksha Jain Ravinder Sharma Obeid Salem Terri Chong 1

contents p6

P16

bernard halibut and the bird of prey short story by peter abram

cambodian street art

kakada yi

p28

dillai joseph

p40

marriage and mutton curry by m. shanmughalingam

p44

pan yuliang

p64

editorial

book review by martin bradley

images of india nadeesh prabou

p76

fadilah karim

p88

kannu behera

Cover image Protect what is left, by Dillai Joseph, 2021

p98

turning of the tides

short story by martin bradley

p106 sunil sigdel

p118

penang botanical gardens

photographs by sean thow

p130 pratiksha jain

p142 ravinder sharma

p154 obeid salem

p164

china on a plate

food from china by terri chong

Lotus The Blue

editorial These continue to be difficult times for us all. I am still ensconced in Cambodia, away from my regular desk in Kuala Lumpur. It will be 12 months soon. I am luckier than most. I am able to continue with The Blue Lotus magazine, with heartfelt thanks to Colors of Cambodia and the loan of this Mac desktop. Vaccines are slowly coming amongst us and, finger crossed, the pandemic will be held at bay in the near future. I am most fortunate that Asian artists and writers, and those living in Asia, continue to support this magazine with the showing of their works. I remain grateful to all those who actively support this project, and have done over what is nearly 10 years (more of that in the next issue). Thank you all. Now enjoy the wonderful selection of artworks and writing in this issue. And thank you all, once again for your support Martin

https://issuu.com/martinabradley/docs/being_here_now_

short story

Bernard Halibut and the Bird of Prey by Peter Abram Edited by A.E. Schwartz

Part 1

on crystal-clear lakes or wandering through glacial-carved valleys and over rolling hills and forests, where the bison, mountain lions, March 2020 It’s midnight and I’m backing away from a bobcats, grizzly bears and wolverines roam free to hunt or be hunted in a never-ending decapitated corpse. engagement where only the strongest survive. * My role on this planet is solitary and purely 8 hours earlier voyeuristic. I prowl, I stalk, I pay witness and a kind of homage to the avian world above. My plane touched down on the runway at I exited the airport and headed for the taxi Phnom Penh airport. Bit of a bumpy landing rank. Someone had his eyes on me. A scrawny but we made it. My intention had been to continue holidaying for another fortnight before local. The weasel type. He had a slight hump on his back, wore wraparound sunglasses and a taking up a six-month post with the World grubby shirt. Bank in Hong Kong. Birding is my life. Based primarily in northern Cambodia in a forest “Tuk-tuk, sir? My name Trig and I only charge cabin and living off the grid, I’d been successful four dollars to city center.” in my quest to photograph the endangered The going rate was ten dollars, so I nodded Giant Ibis and abundant woodpeckers of and handed him my bag. “I need a hotel near the the dry dipterocarp forest. To my delight I river. Reasonably cheap and very quiet.” experienced the entire forest simultaneously blooming, producing a profusion of exotic Typically the tuk-tuk ride from the airport flowers and winged fruits. My plans were, once is a jarring passage through busy highways in Phnom Penh, to take a riverboat ride up the and cluttered little thoroughfares. It’s all dust, Tonlé Sap to the Vietnamese border. zigzagging, sharp turns, beeps and honks. I’d enjoyed the brief and peaceful flight On this occasion, however, the peculiar across the country. Strolling through the airport, reality of my environment put a crease in my I found that the contrast between the empty forehead. I sat up, slipped my glasses on and, plane cabin and the terminal couldn’t have been greater. A thousand scurrying Westerners. glancing over Trig’s sweat-stained shoulder, studied the streets and buildings. Something I shrugged it off though. After going off the was different. Something had changed since my grid for a few months, as I routinely do, it’s last visit in 2019. The metropolis had vaporized. not unusual to find disconcertion in something No people, no cars, no hum of traffic or scent of as simple as the crossing of a busy street. The nature of my work as a financial analyst allows gasoline. No heaving markets, textile vendors, spice sellers and fried fish hawkers. me to avoid humanity and work primarily Phnom Penh was a ghost town. alone and Online. Even that would be unbearable if I didn’t * get to spend six months of the year birding in Police barricades were everywhere. We lush grasslands or alpine meadows, boating 8

turned into 41st Street and I ordered Trig to pull over and let me know what the hell was going on. Via a series of broken sentences and hand signals, he described the flu epidemic. Coronavirus crisis. Certain parts of town were locked down. “So where are you taking me?” “Room going at the Western Inn.” I had a fellow birdwatcher called O’Kelly, an Irish guy, who stayed at that joint, located behind the Night Market near Riverside. I didn’t know O’Kelly well and avoided the redlight end of Riverside like the plague, but Trig said the inn was peaceful.

but never expected to get knocked out with a single blow for pimping. “Where are you taking me?” “Don’t be scared.” “I’m not scared now where are we going?” “I take you to safe place.” “The hell you will.” Maybe I had a headache and a sense of shame but that didn’t mean I was about to run away. “Take me to the Western Inn.”

I couldn’t look Trig in the eyes as I handed him his cash. He made sure I was okay. Then, at the wheel of his rickety little tuk-tuk, Trig shot off down the street. I gazed into the distance. Gunshot was too “You sure they’ve got vacancies?” far away to see clearly, but I could sense his “Sure, sure.” presence. On more than one occasion in the jungle I’ve had a wild cat at my back. Had to That morning Trig had been tasked with unsheathe my Randall knife and take care of transporting the belongings of a Norwegian business. And I did. But Phnom Penh was no fellow whose room the housemaid had to clear jungle and I resigned myself to forgetting the out after the police detained him. I slapped an incident and getting myself settled in at the inn. extra dollar in Trig’s hand and on we pressed. I slid the iron door open and stepped Some streets were ruled over from gutter to inside. Well, it was definitely a cowboy joint. skyline by gilded temples with golden spires, Hank Williams’ stoned ramblings drifted lightly others little more than shantytown, a cacophony from speakers above the bar. The chairs were of rickety walls and rusty tin roofs. wicker and roomy. The mahogany wooden The sun set. We turned into Seng Ang Street walls were a nostalgic celebration, featuring and were not a stone’s throw from the inn photos, the Stars and Stripes, a dusty wagon when Trig slowed down, then abruptly pulled wheel, a Telecaster and a couple of acoustic over. He sprung out from behind the wheel guitars. Beneath the wide screen monitor at the and shared words with a character standing in end of the bar stood a blackboard emblazoned the doorway. When he returned, a grim look with the daily specials. Huevos rancheros, marked his face. I held out my hands as if to tortillas, refried beans—that sort of thing. say, “What’s up?” Eight or nine Victorian miners’ lamps hung from the low ceiling, and in the air I recognized “That man called Gunshot. He make finger the reliable scent of sausages ‘n’ mash. As with gesture at you, so I ask him, and he tell me no all bars of that kind, the most striking features Western pimps allowed in this street.” were the hunters’ trophies. A snarling wild cat, boar’s head and a buck. On the floor to my left, Well, that I did not expect, but I didn’t I noticed the obligatory shrine to the Buddha, take it too seriously. In truth, I couldn’t help complete with rice balls, incense sticks and but smile. I hopped out of the tuk-tuk and flowers. approached the fellow, ready to clarify my I wheeled my bag inside. status as a law- abiding tourist, but nothing And there she was, leaning against the back prepared me for what happened next. He wall. slammed me in the face. I saw stars and realized The Khmer girl had lustrous black hair I was flat on my back. Trig helped me into the that shone like the mane of a sun-bound tuk-tuk, and we drove on. I’m no martial artist Pegasus. Her eyes were wide and innocent. The 9

glow of her soft skin gave her complexion a smouldering appearance. But nothing prepared me for her smile. The girl’s whole face lit up as those full, sensual lips opened to reveal an ivory white horseshoe of teeth. Her slim figure had a gorgeous symmetry, and the desire— one I’d never experienced before—to cross the bar and slip off the red cotton frock masking her beautiful body completely overtook me. Naturally, I picked my jaw up off the ground and composed myself. “Hi,” she said. “Hello. And you are?” “Veata is my name.” She studied every inch of me before noting, “You’re bald.” “That’s right.” “Need room or drink?” “Both,” I replied, ambling to the bar. “A glass of your finest milk, please.” “Ice?” I shook my head and dropped into a seat. “My name is Bernard Halibut. Does O’Kelly still live here?” “Irishman? No, he away to watch the birds.” I never cared for Riverside and all the creepy nightlife, and though we weren’t smack bang in the thick of it, I needed a bit of clarification before I committed to staying there. “I just had an unpleasant encounter with a local. The tuk-tuk fellow did his best to explain, but perhaps you could throw in a few more details. What’s going on in this town?” She handed me my drink and then laid it all out for me. The country was now in lockdown as the government battled the proliferation of COVID-19. Of Phnom Penh’s two million residents, almost a million were the underclass from the provinces and they’d been ordered to evacuate the city and return home. Most of them originally drifted into the inner city in search of work and were reluctant to return to the abject poverty of the jungles and shantytowns. Thus, the police and army had moved in and strong-armed them out. The day before I arrived, operators in the red-light district defied the order to close up their clubs, 10

so the cops pulled the plug on the power grid, plunging those sordid streets into darkness. “So disease is here, Mr. Halibut.” “Humanity—now that’s the real disease on this planet.” Maybe Veata took that as a joke but I’d never been more serious. Gunshot planting one on me, as he did, really pissed me off. “The world can keep its loving families. Give me a dark forest and a barn owl any day.” “So you no like people?” “People don’t realize the mandarin duck is one of God’s most exquisite creatures. They think it’s something you eat over a bed of white rice.” Adopting a more serious tone, I asked, “Are restaurants open in the evenings at least? I mean, can I go out for dinner?” “No,” replied Veata, with a firmness that told me who’s the boss. “All police leave city at five. That’s every day.” “Why?” “They got families to protect too. Nights are dangerous, you know.” “As can be the days,” I replied, rubbing the freshly emerging lump on my cheek. “Power goes out every night. Come now.” Veata rounded the bar and beckoned for me to follow her. She was barefoot and wore glitter nail varnish on her tiny toes. We ambled through the beige paneled saloon doors out the back and up the stairs. The room was modest but comfy. “Sorry about tools beside cupboard. Workman fixing air conditioner and fans.” A double bed, wardrobe and battered air conditioner. It whirred like a horde of insects droning in the forest at midnight. Strange how one doesn’t need to check the rooms to know a hotel is deserted. Suited me just fine, but the situation in the country was a little too chaotic and I made up my mind to fly to Hong Kong in the morning.

“Will pay you for tonight, then I’ll have to be leaving tomorrow.” I took out some cash, then turned around to face Veata. Couldn’t believe what I saw.

ago he’d been arrested by cops who beat him to within an inch of his life. They released him. He returned. He blamed Veata for ratting him out and swore vengeance.

She had tears welling in the sparkling diamonds that were her eyes. Before I could inquire as to the source of her distress, she collapsed into my arms and was sobbing uncontrollably. I held her tightly. Veata’s body was velvet soft, and her hair had a sweet lavender fragrance.

“From sunset until very late he always in doorway. Always watching me.”

“What’s wrong?”

She trembled and whispered, “Now no police around at night. He coming for me.” I wanted to confess to being one of his pathetic victims but couldn’t bring myself to recall such a pitiful story.

She slipped her hand into mine and led me to the balcony. The sultry night air washed over me. Darkness had settled on the urban “Can’t the other staff here support you in all metropolis. Random pinheads of lights flickered this?” like a handful of luminosities strewn hither and yon across the grey concrete landscape. “Who? The sixty-year-old maid? “That doorway.” She pointed to an entrance at the base of a grimy building about fifty yards down our narrow, cobbled street. “Wait a second.” Too dark to use my spotting scope. From my bag I removed my new night vision goggles, strapped them on, scanned the building, and there in the doorway stood Gunshot. Couldn’t bring myself to tell her he’d decked me with one punch. “Just a man in a doorway,” I mumbled. Veata took a step back. “Listen to me.” According to her, Gunshot had been selling methamphetamine from that doorway for months, bringing all the Khmer lowlifes into the inn and scaring the Westerners away. His drugged customers would order drinks they couldn’t pay for, then use the bathrooms as a shooting gallery. She’d tried to reason with him, but he’d told her to get lost. Two weeks

They all back in provinces.” I led her inside and slid the balcony door shut. “When and how do you think he’ll come for you?” “Tonight, I think he watch me. He enjoy my fear. Could be any day after then.” She dropped onto my bed, cupped her hands over her face and gently sobbed. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The classic nerd. Thirty-one years of age, prematurely bald but still reasonably nimble from all that swinging around in trees. Bookish, polite, no trouble to anyone. I’d had a lifetime of it. The world never once sitting up and taking notice of me. Now humans felt free to kick my ass whenever it suited them. Veata slipped out of her red frock. She reached for my arm and pulled me down onto the bed. Have to admit I’d never enjoyed making love before. Tried a few times as a younger fellow but sex meant nothing to me. The most extraordinary lovemaking I’d ever known had been an entirely vicarious experience back in 2010. Two bald eagles 11

were hunting snakes. They then engaged in a ritual known as the cartwheel courtship flight. They flew high, locked talons and went into a cartwheel spin as they fell to earth, breaking apart at the last minute, not fifty yards from my post behind a Douglas fir tree in west-central British Columbia. Never thought that could be topped until Veata rocked my world with her warm tongue and sensual touch. An hour later, as Veata took a shower and I lay on my bed drenched in sweat and staring at the ceiling, it occurred to me that I had to do what needed to be done. Wasn’t hard for me to summon up enough hatred to go after a scoundrel like Gunshot. A drug dealer who’d attacked me without reason. The cops wouldn’t be around to do a damn thing about it. Phnom Penh was no longer a city; it was the jungle. Gunshot had blundered his way into my world. Veata had reached out to me with the hand of destiny. I wasn’t about to slap it away. The voyeur had to become the hunter. *

Part 2

There’s a certain moment on any kind of expedition into the wilds when a man realizes he’s on his own. He’s vulnerable. Nature, wild beast or malevolent foe could get you in its cross-hairs and you’d better watch out. That’s the sense of risk and freedom the outdoor wanderer, whether he’s a mountaineer or a bush-walker, craves. I felt it in spades that evening, sitting on the floor of my balcony and gazing into the night in a city the police had deserted. Random chatter and shouts and the soft weep of a baby crying fluttered across the night air. Suddenly, what sounded very much like a burst of gunfire down by the river’s edge caught my ear. Could have been nothing more than the grease monkeys making a noise at the local chop shop, but whatever that clatter was, it sparked the formulation of my modus operandi. Years ago, in an African everglade, I witnessed one of the most vicious birds in the world plying its trade. Balaeniceps Rex— commonly known as the shoebill—is a huge stork-like bird. It stood deathly still, zeroing in on its game. A tiny crocodile glided across the swamp water. The shoebill powered towards it 12

and then struck, using its powerful clog-shaped bill to snatch up the croc and rip its head off. Following a kill, the call a shoebill makes is like no other in the avian world. A sharp machinegun-like blast. Then it drifts away into the reeds and shallows to feast on its prey. I needed a weapon. Had left my knife and a few other things back in the forest cabin. My eyes turned to workman’s tools stacked neatly beside a wooden box in the corner of the room. I flicked my cigarette, shut the balcony door behind me and examined the box. Inside was the new air conditioner. For transportation purposes, the box had been secured with prongedged banding—sharp prong-edged banding. I used a screwdriver to pry the banding away. Ten minutes later had a length of very sharp metal banding to play with. That would be my garrote. Handles. I’d need handles as the damn thing was too sharp to get a firm grip on. I removed a portrait of noted Khmer singer Keo Nisa from the wall and extracted two of those small plywood slats you can find in the back of any framed picture. Gaffer-taped them to both ends of the banding. That would make the garrote easier to grip without tearing my hands to ribbons. With the weaponry prepared, I stepped out onto the balcony and scoured the streets below. Could barely make him out, but there was definitely a silhouette lurking in the dark entryway. A knock at the door caught my attention. “He’s there; he’s there.” Veata’s eyes were pleading with me. “So how do I get the hell out of Dodge once I’ve taken care of him?” “I’ve left the back door and the back gate open.” She handed me a set of keys. “Leave your bag in my blue Camry. It’s parked in back lane. When you finish you drive to airport. Leave car by the south gate. Keys under seat. Rumor is borders are closing tomorrow night. When they open again, promise me you’ll come back to me.” “When they reopen I’ll be back.” I slipped the keys into my pocket.

She kissed me, then reached for a glass on the landing shelf. “Here. Dutch courage. Wild Turkey.” I knocked it down in one. Ten minutes later I had on my lightweight safari clothing and balaclava. I scurried out the back way. Slipped my travel bag into the backseat of the Camry. Made my way through the lanes. A deafening silence hung over the neighborhood. Having tucked myself into an alcove across the street and around sixty yards from the doorway, I settled myself down, closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Somewhere in the block behind me a cockfight was underway. No mistaking that sound. Manic flutter and boisterous gamblers. The sour odor of rotten meat hung in the air. I strapped on my night vision goggles and scanned the layout. Saw the remains of a couple of rats that had been squashed by tuk-tuks as they scuttled across the street or tossed from rattraps by some scraggly cleaning lady. Rodent roadkill is not an uncommon sight in Phnom Penh, and it accounted for the foul odour. In the doorway, the flash of a cigarette sparking caught my attention. I took a moment to examine the target. He really was a big fellow, his gaze transfixed on the inn, waiting, no doubt, for Veata to show herself. For a moment I didn’t move, zeroing in on him the same way my old friend the African shoebill sized up that croc. Confident the two of us were alone, I pulled off my night vision goggles. From my pocket I removed the steel band I’d fashioned into a garrote. Made my way towards him. My heart beat faster, then faster still like a crazed prisoner banging on his cell door. At the doorway I stopped and turned to face him. “Why’d you insult me, brother?” With my mind racing at a thousand miles an hour, I didn’t take the time to ponder what a curious question he’d asked. Leapt on him. Took his back. Secured the garrote around his neck. He cried out in Khmer but only briefly

as the band cut into his throat. In unison we tumbled to one side. Gunshot was more powerful than I, but the more he struggled, the tighter the garrote secured itself. My forearms shook. I screwed up my face. Spittle foamed on my lips. He thrashed. He back kicked me. He jammed his fingers into my eyes. A torrent of blood shot out of his neck. The gurgling sound of him drowning in his own plasma and gore will stay with me forever. I pulled the garrote tighter, kicked his body to one side and gasped as his head separated from his neck. The events of the past eight hours flashed before my eyes. Jesus, I really did it. *

Part 3

A check of the watch. Midnight. I scan the street. No apparent witnesses. Race back to the car, rip off my blood-spattered garments and change into a set of clean clothes. Bag up the bloody ones—I’ll toss them on the way to the airport. Am about to slip into the driver’s seat but I notice a figure at the back gate looming the darkness. He’s coming my way. “O’Kelly?” “You’re Halibut, right? Bernie?” “I must go.” I get in, fire the engine and prepare to gun it all the way to the airport. Without invitation O’Kelly hops into the passenger seat. “Give me a lift. Please give me lift.” I step on the accelerator and head down the bumpy lane-way. Do my best not to appear like a man who has just beheaded a dope dealer. “Where you going, pal?” “Airport, where else? Last flights out of here leaving tonight.” The adrenalin dump ties my guts into knots and a woozy sensation begins to overtake me. “What were you doing at the back gate?” 13

“Had to sneak in and get my passport. That Veata bitch is crazy. The Gardaí nicked that Scandinavian fella today. ’Twas enough to get me running.” A fireball of dread begins to spin in my guts. The streetlights are a never-ending blur of yellow. A fresh film of salty sweat covers my face. Drips from my chin. I can barely make out what O’Kelly’s raving about. Veata has her sights on taking over the drug trade south of Riverside. She knows the police will take the word of any Khmer over a Westerner and accordingly has made a habit of drawing gullible British and American types into doing her dirty work for her. Right now I can barely breathe. My arms, my shoulders, they’re going numb. “You okay? What would be wrong with ya?” O’Kelly is shouting but his delivery is a whisper in the wind as my eyes roll back in my head and the world spins around and around. “What in the bejesus might these be?” From the backseat he grabs the bag filled with my bloody clothes and holds it aloft. “Pull over. Pull over!” I slump forward, my footsteps on the accelerator. Can no longer keep my hands on the wheel. There’s a thud as we come to a crashing halt, and a jarring pain rivets my back and neck. I glance at the vacant passenger seat. O’Kelly’s fled into the night. I whisper to myself, “That drink Veata gave me,” and I succumb to a sleep blacker than the blood in a dead nun’s heart. * “You awake?” Asks the police officer standing guard in my hospital room. 14

“I guess.” Sure I’m awake but I can barely sit up. In Khmer he orders a witness to enter the room. Trig, the sweaty little tuk-tuk driver has lost the weasel look as he strolls confidently into the room. Somehow he appears taller. Stronger. His back ramrod straight. He points his finger directly into my face. “No kuchea keat. That him! That him! He fight with Gunshot.” I’m too dazed to react. Now she too enters the room. Veata’s glare is hot and hard as hell. She turns to the cop and says in English, “Yes, he the man who booked the room, then stole my car.” She waltzes away with Trig. I can read body language okay. They’re together. For now my wings have been clipped. Those vultures think they’ve got me caged forever. The hell I am. In Cambodia you can pay your way out of anything. This bald eagle’s got snakes to hunt. Peter is a British Australian writer now based in Phnom Penh. © 2021 https://peterlabram.com/blog/

Evening stroll along Sisowath quay by Foo Kwee Horng

Kakada

a Yi

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Dillai Joseph

Escape read

Tropical Eve

I constantly explore the human spirit and what is around me. Almost everywhere I look, I get inspiration. I don’t necessarily believe in sticking to one theme, or that every piece has to be interlinked. The world is so chaotic and constantly changing. Inspiration can pop up from anywhere. My style is a mix of classical and contemporary painting. I use many types of mediums such as watercolour, acrylic/ oils and soft pastels. Still love the old masters and am constantly trying to figure out their tricks. I would say I am a slow, detailed painter. Climate change has been an area I have been exploring in the recent past. The human relationship with the environment specifically interests me. Painting has always been my first love even though I chose advertising as a career path. Being a Sri Lankan artist has given so much subject matter for most of my pieces. Whether it is dirt on the road, to the most interesting faces on the pavement or the most breath-taking trees, seascapes, shrubs, I can go on… Although my Academics are from Communication Design and Marketing, and being in Advertising for the longest period (some award winning work), has widened the way I look at art and also made me understand the true value of proper artistry vs. the commercial art, and what not to be as an artist. I studied under Nadine David (Who studied under David Paynter) and Royden Gibbs, and have valuable knowledge that was passed down. Dillai Joseph

Tangled

Escape lovers

Tree with moss

Drift wood

Mystique

Open

Tree from the woods

Protect what is left

Marriage & Mutton Curry by M. Shanmughalingam A review by Martin Bradley

When I first knew of M. Shanmughalingam’s title for this volume of short stories, a huge grin widened my mouth. I involuntarily drooled. One of the best curries that I’ve ever experienced was in the home of a migrant Sri Lankan family, living on the outskirts of London, England. The curry was (of course) ‘mutton curry’, however the ‘mutton’ referred to in that instant was in fact goat, for in many Sri Lankan families ‘mutton’ means goat. The meat was cut small and the curry (gravy) was steeped in spices and quite deliciously amazing. In ‘Marriage & Mutton Curry’, the ‘mutton’ is lamb (pronounced lamp by ‘Chelvi’ one of the author’s endearing characters), bought from a

“From Kuala Lumpur’s very prestigious Victoria Institution to (of course) cricket and the indignity of being locked in a chicken coop, Shanmughalingam unravels a Malaya in which race, creed and colour have bounded communities, but has also bonded them. “ local Kuala Lumpur market. I would very much have liked to compare the two curries, perhaps with thosai (Dosa) or hoppers (appam). But Shanmughalingam doesn’t stop at mutton curry. Chicken curry (with potatoes) crab curry (with string hoppers, aka Idiyappam) “curries of mashed brinjals and lady’s finger” curry with roti chennai and fish curry all grace this collection of short stories, making you feel quite full having read until end of the book. Like India’s great narrator R.K.Narayan and his Tamil lands, Shanmughalingam, in ‘Marriage & Mutton Curry’, reveals an exuberant collection of stories concerning Malaya’s Sri Lankan diaspora. Unlike Sri Lanka’s Michael Ondaatje and his ‘Running with the Family’ collection, Shanmughalingam’s tales are not specifically of his own family. His stories tell of others, those who left Ceylon (Serendib/Sri Lanka) and attempted to meld with other collections of migrants already embedded in equatorial Malaya. From Kuala Lumpur’s very prestigious Victoria Institution to (of course) cricket and the indignity of being locked in a chicken coop, Shanmughalingam unravels a Malaya in which race, creed and colour have bounded communities, but has also bonded them. One such community consists of the Ceylonise (now Sri Lankans), a mixed community in themselves consisting of ‘Jaffna 41

Tamils’ (as one Shanmughalingam story relates) the Sinhalese and Burghers, all very proud of their ancestry and their separateness from, for instance, Malayan Indians from Tamil Nadu (the Tamil Indians), or migrants from Bangladesh (then East Bengal). Mary Anne Mohanraj in her intriguing Sri Lankan cookbook ‘A Feast of Serendib: Recipes from Sri Lanka’ remarks…. “ We come together with other Sri Lankans—homelander and diaspora, Sinhalese and Tamil, Buddhist and Hindu and Christian and Muslim—over delicious shared meals. Sri Lanka has been a multi-ethnic society for over two thousand years, with neighbours of different ethnicities, languages, religions, living side by side.” And the same is to be said of Malaya. ‘Marriage & Mutton Curry’ is so much more than its title suggests. There are the bonds of friendship, its (perhaps innocent) betrayal as well as the complexities of traditional marriages. These stories are played out within Malaya, in all its gently revealed quirkiness, multilingualism and multiculturalisms, and written from a local voice. The author writes (in the title story) “I stared from one person to the other. Kandasamy noticed this and told

“There are no retrospective illusions in Shanmughalingam’s ‘Marriage & Mutton Curry”, no indications of a ‘Golden Age’ of Malaya, only well crafted illustrations of migrant life” me how those people switched from Hokkien to Malay, from English to Tamil and some Siamese. A team of bulls hitched to bullock carts passed through, but what excited me more than that was seeing a pony cart like Amma’s with an English couple riding in it. Why could Kandasamy and I not go to see my and his Amma or to Ireland, the home of Mother Superior? (p134). There are no retrospective illusions in Shanmughalingam’s ‘Marriage & Mutton Curry”, no indications of a ‘Golden Age’ of Malaya, only well crafted illustrations of migrant life, in detail, with all its ups and downs and the determination to succeed in a familiar, and yet unfamiliar land, for the British managed both countries, Ceylon until 1948, and Malaya until 1957, and not forgetting the small percentage of ‘Malays’ who have been living in Sri Lanka/Ceylon since the 13th century. This volume of short stories serves as a good introduction to a particular set of migrants, while also revealing much of life in Malaya under the British. British occupation remains as a backdrop, as does the invasion of the Japanese. Shanmughalingam is interested in tales of ordinary people (again like Narayan), not the British overlords, and this is to his credit. Far too many books concerning Malaya are patronisingly seen through ‘foreigner’s’ eyes, others pour vitriol on those times. Shanmughalingam concerns himself with neither praise nor condemnation of the British, for he has set his sights upon other stories, akin to but different from those of Lloyd Fernando and K. S. Maniam. There are multitudinous reasons why I might recommend this book, however none of my reasons would be as good as just simply reading this collection of short stories by M. Shanmughalingam. His tales are, put simply, Malaya from the heart. If you want to really understand Malaya/Malaysia, this is the book for you. 42

M. Shanmughalingam

Pan Yuliang

Nude Girl

Pan Yuliang By Martin A Bradley

Pan Yuliang (1895-1977) has been hailed as the Chinese premier female ‘modern’ artist. Many female Chinese artists have gone before her, such as those from the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) and the Qing Dynasty (16441911), and there are those who studied art abroad in the early part of the 20th century such as He Xianning, Guan Zilan, Jin Qijing, Qiu Ti, Fang Junbi, Cai Weilian, Zhang Liying, Fang Zhaolin, Rong Junli, Zhang Qianying, Su Xuelin, Xiao Shufang, and Zhang Mojun. However Pan Yuliang has stood out alone for her mastery of art, and her diligence. Though overlooked in China for many decades, her work has been reintroduced into the canon of Chinese modern art, and gained an interest around the world. China’s first ‘modern’ art academy, the Shanghai Art Academy (later to become the Shanghai Art School), was founded in the year of the Chinese revolution (1911- 1912), by a 16-year-old Liu Haisu who, two years later was responsible for the first public exhibitions (1913) and (in the Western fashion) using live nude models (first only male, then later female) within the classroom. But not without complaint. Nude modelling had to stop, for a while, to help society catch up with the idea. The Shanghai Art School, however, continued to encourage the combining of Western and Chinese painting techniques (xiyanghua). It was the first school of art in China to take in both male and female students although, initially, there was a separation between the sexes. Pan Yuliang, one of the first female graduates of the Shanghai Art Academy, had been born in Yangzhou, Jiangsu Province, China, as Chen Xiuqing (1895). Her family ran a small business specializing in the production and sale of felt hats. Her father died before her first birthday and the business went into bankruptcy. When Pan Yuliang was two years old her elder sister died, and her mother died when she was eight. After that time she was raised by her uncle. Chen Xiuqing was renamed Zhang Yuliang when she was fourteen years old, and had been adopted by her maternal uncle, from Wuhu, Anhui. There is a salacious, but false, story concerning her uncle selling her to a brothel, for which there is no evidence. It is a fiction which has since been re-created for a novel A soul haunted by painting by Shih Nan in 1984 and later made into a popular film of the same name. In reality, in 1910, at age 15, Pan Yuliang’s embroidery, making silk and velvet headdresses led her to an interest in design and painting. Over time she came to love music, sculpture and art, especially the colours used in painting. In 1913, at age 18, Zhang Yuliang met and married Pan Zanhua who was, by all accounts, a young revolutionary. Zhang Yuliang took her husband’s

Dance of the Mask

Seated Nude Holding a Mirror

name, which was unusual in China at that time. That same year (1913), the couple moved to Shanghai and the freshly named Pan Yuliang started to study drawing with the teacher Hong Ye. In 1919, it is recorded that Pan Yuliang and another young female painter, Rong Junli, were among 11 graduates from Shanghai Chengdong Girls’ school who had requested entry to the Shanghai Art School. At the age of 25 (1920), Pan Yuliang was accepted into the first coeducational class at the Shanghai Art Academy. The Academy was then teaching a Western style painting, with thanks to teachers and founder Liu Haisu, Wu Shiguang and Zhang Yuguang. In 1921, the diligent young artist Pan Yuliang was accepted by the Institute Franco-Chinois de Lyon (from Lyon, France),which was recruiting in China. She left the Shanghai Art Academy for France. Pan Yuliang attended the Ecole des beaux-arts (in Lyon) and studied under Xu beihong, and in 1923 studied at the Ecole des beaux-arts in Paris, graduating in 1925, just when the Chinese Republic had participated in the great Exposition internationale des Arts décoratifs et industriels modernes à Paris, held from April to the October of 1925. Pan Yuliang went on to study in Italy (at the Accademia del Belle Arti di Roma, Rome) studying oil painting and sculpture for two more years. Pan Yuliang had received a scholarship from the Italian Ministry of Education and had her paintings accepted for exhibitions in Italy. She was the first Chinese artist to receive this honour and the first eastern person entered into the Italy Roma Royal Academy of Arts. This is not to deny that others, such as the female Chinese painter Wu Shujuan (aka Wu Xingfen 1853 - 1930), from Anhui, China, whose dozen plus paintings (at the 1910 World Fair in Turin), were purchased by Queen Elena of Italy. Pan Yuliang returned to China and, in 1928/9, became the Dean of the Western Painting Department of Shanghai Art Academy and Shanghai Art University, later to become Professor of the National Central University’s Art Department. She held her first major exhibition on her initial return to China, and later many exhibitions in China and Japan. Between the years 1931-1935, Pan Yuliang taught as a lecturer in the Fine Arts Department of the Central University in Nanjing. In 1934, the Shanghai Chung Hwa Book Company published The Oil Paintings of Pan Yuliang about her and her works. In 1937 she returned to France, where she stayed for the next forty years, melding Eastern and Western styles of art, and learning all the time about the different styles that French ‘Modernism’ was creating. She had produced some 4,000 works, mostly nudes of women. Pan Yuliang had, effectively, exiled herself in France, living and dying alone in Paris, aged 78, ill and homesick for China, on July 22, 1977.

Woman watching a cat

Woman playing poker

Combing

Nudes and Masks

Woman touching her head

Nude, ink on paper

Nude, detail

Solitary beauty

Nu assis au peignoir rouge

Nu assis

Images o By Nadeesh Prabou

of India

Fisher women

Inspiration for my works, comes from the moments of “everyday life” in India. It’s really beautiful, when you walk down the streets, you can see the roadside shops filling up the sides, dogs and cows sharing the streets with the people. I usually capture the light that pass through the streets and people on them, whether its summer or heavy rain monsoon. For an artist it’s a fantastic feast for eyes. Beautiful rainy days: Rain is the most essential phenomenon for life to exist on earth. Mostly my painting shows the scene on a rainy day depicting the “sound and beauty of rain”. The magic of Rain makes the path of streets shine like a mirror and provides perfect ambience for my creativeness. My brush captures the ambience of dark skies, rain soaked shiny streets, people with umbrellas, roofs of cars, dancing trees and murmuring sound of rain in a dramatic style. I try to portray the happiest features and the deepest challenges in my paintings, all that’s explored and still learning…………….

Courtesy - The HINDU

Kasi

Untitled

Rain upcoming

Varanasi

Ganga nadhi

fadilah karim

Carry me on

Routine

Fadilah Karim is a Malaysian Asian Modern

& Contemporary painter born in 1987. She obtained her Masters in Fine Art & Technology (Major in painting) at Universiti Institute Teknologi MARA, Malaysia, in 2013. She had held her first solo exhibition ‘Vague’ at Pace Gallery, Selangor, Malaysia, (2012). Fadilah Karim’s work has been sold in Malaysia by Butcher Art Auctioneers in 2018. Her group exhibitions include those in Genset , and Gajah Galleries in Singapore;’Being Human: Figuratism’ with16 Malaysian Artists; ‘Art Stage Singapore’ (2015); ‘Deceitful Truth’, Galeri Chandan, Kuala Lumpur (2011); ‘Transit A4’, House of Matahati (HOM) Art Transit, Kuala Lumpur (2012); ‘Young Guns’, Kuala Lumpur (2013); Sekaki, Segaris Art Centre, Kuala Lumpur (2013); ‘Young Guns’, Penang/Singapore (2014); and ‘Mystory’, HOM Art Trans (2014).

Unfold

Defying gravity

Isolation-2

Isolation

Immortal culture 5

Kannu Behera

Cultural reminiscing

I am Kannu Behera, my home Sunapur Ganjam Odisha. I am B.F.A. Government College of Art & Craft, Khallkote, Ganjam Odisha. Completed in M.F.A. I.K.S.V.V. Khairagarh,(C.G.). Has done I am now working as a freelance artist and I have published through my paintings. Based on the art and culture of Odissa and Folk dance, Folk art subject matter and collective art field. He paints and draws on mythology and legends. Thank you.

Procession of the culture

Unique visual Language The artist’s seat of learning is Odisha State which is now has a wealth of treasure of art. It is very nature of Kanha Behera to be inspired by his own art &heritage, and the folk stories he heard growing up . Those were mythical stories that he had heard. He observed nature as well as religious myths. Those inspired him to compose his art, without copying others but make his creations out of his own mind constantly evolving with time. In his work we can find beautifully narratives, visual stories in Kanha Behera`s works which are very much connected to the Folk art form of the ‘Ganjam’ district of Orissa State from where he was involved from his childhood. It is a place where the religion regards goddess ma Durga as traditionally ‘Maa budhithakurani’. From a young age the artist could be found involving himself in the creating of visual narratives and taking in the sacred stories. When he started his profession as a visual artist, naturally he created a new visual language of his own folk tradition. I think it is very important to give emphasis for an artist to give attention to regional mythic stories and tried to recognise folk art and elevate that to contemporary art from regionalism to universalism. The artist’ way of application of his colour tones, his line as well as the whole visual language he creates are vibrant and effective. He creates new dimensions to the traditional style making that contemporarily applicable . Lastly I would like to wish him a great bright artistic career filled with dedication and his contributions towards innovations in the world of art. Bipin Bihari Martha Regional Secretary lalit kala akademi, Kolkata 91

The procession of culture

Bagha nacha

Immortal culture 5

Danda nacha

short story

Turning of the Tides (Finale of the ‘Diabetes’ series of stories)

by Martin Bradley "See you in four days then. Take care darling." Those are Andrew Goodchild's famous last words to his younger partner, the Malaysian artist Sugar Khoo. They are at Kuala Lumpur International Airport 2 (KLIA 2) and it is the sixteenth of March. Andrew is due to board his AirAsia Flight AK 540 (at 12.45pm). Seat 19B “So far all smiles”, from inside the airport terminal Andrew Facebook messages to Sugar, . “it’s difficult to tell under the blue masks though”, he continues. Andrew presents his, minimal, bags at the x-ray scanning conveyor. He feels a little guilty about not wearing a belt in his trousers. Scanning officials inevitably ask to see a belt, and Andrew disappoints them each trip. His Marks and Spencer baggy (made in Bangladesh) cotton trousers need no belt, only a cord with a haphazardly tied knot. "It’s such a shame. Perhaps on my next trip I shall wear a belt to please the officials, let them show me where I should place it, and then I can tell them where to shove it" Andrew messages to Sugar. Then he is in the 'Departures' area heading to his 'Gate'. To Andrew, Kuala Lumpur International Airport 2 appears no less busy amidst this presenting pandemic than at any other time. He is not quite sure just what he expected, empty spaces perhaps, people cowering, shying away from contact but, at this point in our story Andrew has noticed no bell ringing, no ‘Bring out your dead’, and no hook-beaked Charles de Lorme plague masks on black clad doom bearers. Business, despite a world pandemic, is as usual at KL International airport. Siem Reap, on the other hand, is sanitiser mad. 98

Andrew finds that entry to Siem Reap airport changes each time he arrives. But he is through. He has no luggage to collect and his host Meyta Souk (Khmer Director of the charity ‘Art will save the world’), leaps to douse Andrew with misting fluid as he steps out of the bijou airport. “Everyone must be spray,” she says. Andrew is busy cleaning his glasses as Meyta continues... “Papa, tourism is down in town”. She pulls a sad face for emphasis. In a place that relies on tourism to survive, this is very difficult for the locals. “Small business hard no tourists America, Japan, Europe” she says. To Andrew’s mind that is both a blessing and a curse. No tourists means Siem Reap is easy to navigate, no tourists also means that places are closing, and some closing down which is not such a good thing. Meyta whisks Andrew from the airport. Her twin sister Meyka is driving. They traverse the dusty roads still filled with pedal and motorised transport and head for the building housing ‘Art will save the world’ along Preah Sangreach Tep Vong St. Andrew's small room has been made ready on the third floor. It is normally saved for people on a ‘residency’, or important guests giving art and craft workshops over a period of time, but as it is for such a short time Andrew thinks it fine. He slings his small rucksack into the room and, crippled with pangs of hunger, walks through a small adjacent alleyway to Hup Guan Street, which runs parallel to where ‘Art will save the world’ is situated. He saunters through another small alley

emerging in Siem Reap’s Central Market Street and, over lunch in The Hideaway Lounge, Andrew overhears one ‘journo’ reporting in. He seems to be questioning the low number of reported cases of the pandemic in Cambodia, saying... “Bob, I’m not convinced that there is a low spread of this disease here in Cambodia, or if it’s a low incidence of reporting existing cases. It could be that there are many more cases of Covid 19 here than we are led to believe. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out more, but it sure seems suspicious. No deaths too, what’s that all about? Yeah, what, no I’m moving on to Thailand next, probably in a day or two, yeah...”. Andrew stops listening. The news is depressing. He concentrates instead on food. ………………… Later. “Sorry, sir”, a diminutive but stocky Khmer gentleman in a dark blue shirt, olive trousers and a cap replete with chevron, pounces (albeit slowly) to block Andrew’s path. The Thai Huot Market (supermarket) guard shoves a white plastic electrical device towards Andrew’s face. It beeps, and Andrew’s assailant turns the machine around, revealing the legend 35.6 to Andrew, and waves him past. "Siem Reap is gaining in additional otherness these pandemic days" Andrew considers, a little bemused. Inside the supermarket, where staff appear to be no older than sixteen (but are in reality in their later teens or early twenties) Andrew gathers his immediate needs into a hard red plastic basket (yes plastic still rules the roost in Cambodia), and trolls back to the room set aside for him above Siem Reap’s ‘Art will save the work gallery’. He sleeps the sleep of an innocent wondering what the morrow may bring. “They what”, Andrew Goodchild’s amount of disbelief is practically tangible. His shocked brain fights against the heady perfumed scent of Cambodian frangipani.

“Closed the bloody airport. What about my flight?” “It’s the virus. They’re trying to stop it going out, and coming in.” Peter Clayvis, an old ‘hippy’ and Andrew’s friend over the past eight years (but more importantly owner of Burger Krong) answers. “Well, don’t give it a bloody ticket, that’ll stop it.” Andrew is obviously well past his news tolerance level. “Andy, please be reasonable.” “What about my visa?” “Chill man, it’s valid for a month isn’t it?” “Well, yes.” “Cool, there you are then. All this pandemic nonsense will all be blown over by the time your visa expires.” “And if it isn’t? I only bought enough money and clothes for four bloody days. And my ticket, what do I do about my damn ticket?” “Look man, the airline will probably extend your ticket, Don’t worry. You have a credit card don’t you? You can withdraw from an ATM. There are so many here. Chill, enjoy your extra holiday. You can continue where you’re at, can't you.? I can't see them kicking you out just like that!” Life is a little like when you take your eye off of the shuttlecock in badminton. Andrew was so concerned about what is happening in Cambodia, settling in, getting used to the new room and its little quirks, its sudden noises, the fact that its window opens onto another room, not to the outside, that he had forgotten all about Malaysia in this time of pandemic. Malaysia, it seems, will be on lockdown from the 18th to the 31st of March. Andrew’s flight back to Malaysia is on the 20th or, rather, won’t be. For Andrew, it is as if Malaysia was just waiting for him to leave. With a little wave, 99

and a great big smirk, some large gentleman dressed in some sort of officious uniform firmly closes the gate to Malaysia and effectively gives Andrew the digitus impudicus (middle finger). “See ya around sucker, but not today ha, ha, ha” It is a vastly different Siem Reap from before, that Andrew wanders on his way back from the FCC. “Quiet, hmmm strange, but nice” he says to himself. There is much less traffic on the roads and no annoying 'tuk tuk, sir?' From eager conveyance riders. It gives Andrew time enough to, quite literally, stop and smell the exotic fragrance of the Frangipani flowers which have turned their faces to the equatorial sun. He is glad to feel the tropical warmth of the day on his skin and to hear melodious birds chattering away on the telephone wires over his head. Without traffic, without tourists Siem Reap’s back roads exude a charm which had been missing. The recent closing of Khmer food stalls, along the roads nearest to the Angkor Hospital for Children, adds to an Eastern romance scented in the Cambodian air, peace and quiet. ………………… The following morning Andrew is still reeling from the Malaysian news. He sends a Facebook PM to Sugar, the light of his life. Her reply reads "Working working Meeting Meeting...." "Ah" thinks a crestfallen Andrew, and wonders why he bothered.

silently screams. And yes, said partner has been reading ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’ recently, Andrew could tell. Later, Andrew sends another message to his lady love. "How are you? What have you been getting up to in my absence?" They are innocent enough questions which look, perhaps, a tad harsher than intended when typed out. Sugar replies "Mmm... Do you think I should tell everything I do on everyday to you ?" It's as though Andrew's love's hand has reached through the 'Gorilla Glass (of his Samsung Edge 7) and slapped him squarely across his face. Quoting a favourite 1950s TV show catchphrase, Andrew sadly murmurs to himself "I only asked". "It's like out of sight out of mind. I wanted closeness but all I've got is distance. Damn, it's been eight years. I thought love would last forever. What a bloody fool I've been, thinking we were happy. Now..." Andrew's thought fades into nothingness. Through the half-lit streets in the slightly cooler evening Andrew walks back a little saddened to 'Art will save the world'. …………………

Andrew’s enforced absence from his love and Days, as they frequently do for Andrew, drag his home in Malaysia, his extended vacation, in by with little word from Sugar. Andrew, giving the beautiful land of Cambodia/Camboge is not in, as he always does at such times, sends Sugar really a hardship, merely an inconvenience. His, a message. now distant, partner Sugar once she manages to Quicker than expected Sugar replies… free herself from her busy life for a few seconds (via Facebook PM), suggests that Andrew…. "Miss you too. Sorry can't talk, at bank now." “Take it as a holiday/retreat; Practice meditation; Do more writing. You hardly got the chance to rest so long, take the opportunity to do some things different.” “Does this person even know me?” Andrew 100

Andrew is feeling low, forgotten, and desperate for a tender word, yet he receives... "I know this is the most challenging time for you, but you can’t expect me to know your feelings towards what’s happening to you. We are both very

different personalities and we see things differently. I know you are safe and there is a place you can stay. So, I don’t worry about you." Which is not quite the warm, tender, loving reply Andrew is expecting. “How and where to find the balance?” Muses Andrew. ………………… Siem Reap still has surprises in store for Andrew. This is witnessed in the strange incidents of the bare-chested men. Andrew walks down Oum Khun Street. It is hot. Andrew is hot. All of a sudden a white man, completely bare of chest with his head shaven, comes profusely sweating towards Andrew (who hopes to turn invisible). In England and in many parts of Europe men bare of chest and head are referred to as 'skinheads’. Andrew’s experience tells him that skinheads are to be avoided because they look for, and inevitably find, violence. Andrew does not look to see if the ‘gentlemen's’ footwear includes the infamous 'bovver boots' for he feels that this is impolite, and quite possibly dangerous too. Andrew is not invisible. The sweaty bald-headed bare-chested man stands in Andrew’s path and elicits "Doyah speak English" "A little" Andrew says modestly, and quite ironically in his English accent. "DoyahknowwhereCentral Marketis?". Says the quite out of breath half-naked ‘gentleman’. Andrew proffers a suggested route. "Fanks". As he is about to leave, the half-naked bald-headed gentleman says, a mite condescendingly... "There, your English is perfeck." "Thank you, I was born in London" Andrew offers to the man’s disappearing back, only to remember, after, that he gave the

man directions to the Old Market, rather than Central market, by mistake. Oops. Quite curiously, and on an entirely different day, at an entirely different location and time, Andrew walks into Thai Huot Market (supermarket) after feeding himself at the American charity eatery Inn Common. The usual temperature check and hand sanitiser routine are performed. Andrew blithely wanders the aisles, grabs milk, water, some veggies etc, the usual fare to sustain him for another day or so. He saunters up one aisle and is about to go down another (to find mayonnaise) when, surprise, surprise, there is a half naked, tattooed, bald-headed man approaching him. Andrew stands stock still. Seconds tick by as the undressed figure (clutching a beer bottle and busy drinking) approaches and, thankfully, passes a silent, shocked, Andrew. “Two”. Andrew is thinking. “Two, like London buses, you don’t see one for eight years and then, all of a sudden, there are two. One following close behind the other.” Andrew hears a commotion behind him. The tattooed man is gone. As Andrew is having his goods checked at the counter, a security guard, holding an open bottle of beer gingerly gives his prize to the counter clerk who rings it up on the till, then places the bottle behind her. A perplexed Andrew wonders “what is all that about?” Two, completely different, but similar, half-naked men (with bald heads) rampaging in Siem Reap. Andrew considers how times have changed.“They must have got lost on the way to the Costa Brava” Andrew says to himself, with a wry and quite superior grin. "Shit, thirty seven dollars that's effectively one hundred and fifty eight bloody Malaysian Ringgit" exclaims Andrew, to himself. Howsoever that is the price of the one day ticket which he has to pay to enter Angkor Wat, that ancient Khmer city. Though more than a little disgruntled at the cost, Andrew is glad that he is paying this price at this time of Corona 19 virus, for it means that Angkor is practically empty of foreigners and is, therefore, revealed in all its ancient glory. Being driven along the furiously dusty Cambodian roads in a tuk tuk, heading to 101

Angkor, Andrew is inundated not just with red dust but also memories of Sugar, her smile and her very pronounced Joie de vivre. Andrew had never met anyone with such a zest for life before. Eight years later he is still both captivated and overwhelmed by her, her boundless energy and her often grossly annoying, positivity. ‘But that’s Sugar, lump it or like it’ he thinks smiling because of his wordplay. The ubiquitous Cambodian reddish brown dust gets into everything. It is as bad as Saharan sand as it covers (otherwise green) plants by the roadside, flies in cloud gusts as the tuk tuk ambles past ditches sprouting white lotus flowers, now liberally sprinkled with the dust which, quite literally, and gets up Andrew's nose (literally as well as figuratively). Andrew hangs onto the tuk tuk's metal frame with one hand while his hat is pressed firmly to his face with the other. It doesn't stop the dust however. Captive Andrew and his nonchalant driver ride by wayside sellers of bottled petrol, leather brown men on motorcycles carrying live pigs on their backs and converted tractors pulling long trailers of deep black charcoal, partially covered with orange and blue tarpaulins. Occasionally Andrew sees small half-naked children urinating in ditches where other children are fishing. Idly Andrew considers " does that help in the catching of fish I wonder ?" Cambodian life slips by as the motorcycle conveyance passes, adding to the amount of flying dust, and gradually inches towards that ancient wonder, the venerable city of Angkor (built by the Khmer King Suryavarman in the early 12th century). Unlike some monuments, or places of architectural interest, Angkor never palls. Andrew's excitement at reaching that temple city sweeps away his loneliness. It is as if he is a young boy again adventuring, not over mounds of sand and pebbles by the wayside intent for road repairs, but eager, delighted and full of expectancy at his new adventure, for this is his solo return to Angkor Wat. Barely able to contain his excitement Andrew pays for his grossly expensive one-day ticket. 102

His first visit to the city of Angkor was with Sugar, and a group of 'Art will save the world' students, for sketching. The one thing which quickly became obvious on that trip, was that Angkor (the city) extends to about four hundred square kilometres (155 sq miles) and there is no way a non-super-human being could see it all in one day, or even a week. Which is why Andrew has been quite particular (and realistic) about this short visit. Alighting from the tuk tuk, he stands facing, admiring, the distant temple array. It was built to reflect the 'Mount Meru' of Hindu mythology, standing at the very centre of the universe, in much the same fashion as the Greek Mount Olympus. For Andrew, standing and admiring, it is a most gratifying moment, even in the hot sun. Slowly, purposely, Andrew walks towards the main entrance. He is so glad that he is one of a few tourists, instead of the normal crowds. To say that the view before him is breathtaking is a gross understatement. Though he has seen it before, the sight of those temple spires reaching up into the stunning azure blue of the Cambodian sky has Andrew shiver as he experiences something uplifting and, seemingly, entirely spiritual. “Perhaps this is the after effect of hundreds of years of human devotion and prayer” he thinks. The fierce Cambodian sun beats down on Andrew’s cheap Malaysian homburg. It shades him a little and protects his growing tonsurelike bald patch but does little else. He sweats. The area immediately around Angkor Wat has been cleared of trees so that the only shade is under the ancient alcoves and arcades. Usually, for tramping around, Andrew would have worn cheap, loose, Cambodian cotton trousers and a short sleeved cotton shirt, but he has only what he brought over to Siem Reap for his four day (now four months) stay. Andrew is being careful with his United States Dollars, and dares not buy local clothing. Thankfully, the tourist friendly Wat (temple) has wood laid over the stone for tourists to climb, instead of the much larger, deeper, original stone steps. The climb up those wooden stairs is challenging enough for the faint of heart, but Andrew copes, taking one step at a time, looking around at the exotic and

romantic scenery while simultaneously trying to catch his breath. Where man has left off, nature has continued. Lichen graces the rocks in the ancient city’s unpolluted air. Seeds, probably dropped or excreted from birds, have grown, year by year, on some of the ruins of Angkor. Nature has enhanced man’s effort with amoebic thick roots framing doorways and enclosing stone window openings transforming them into organically surrealistic sceneries. In a distant part of that Angkor city complex (Ta Prohm) tree roots all but dominate hewn stones, but where Andrew walks the hand of man is still able to revere and reveal the minds of the gods. Because it is hot, and because Andrew is tired from walking, he is about to rest in the shade of a stone cloister when he hears a soft voice. Andrew turns. In a dim recess, lit only by one candle, a handsome young man sits cross -legged on the floor. "Come, rest a while here" the saffron robed youthful male speaks softly and gestures to a smooth-topped stone in front of him. Shrugging to himself, Andrew moves into the space before the young man. By the light of a dim candle, the person before Andrew appears golden. "It must be the light" says Andrew to himself. "Please sit" the figure says again in a slightly accented but otherwise perfect English. Andrew does so. He is about to talk, but the young man holds a finger to his lips, silencing Andrew, then he closes his eyes. Inquisitively Andrew looks around. In one corner of this alcove there seems to be a carving of an empty chair, in another a carving of an umbrella and in yet another a carved footprint. The person before Andrew could be no older than thirty five, he thinks. The man's face is vaguely Indian, not Khmer. He has the longer earlobes like far northern Indians, or Tibetans, but his complexion is baby smooth, a midbrown colour. Andrew is about to close his own eyes when he hears a very soft chanting coming from the young man in front of him. He tries to listen, but the words, not English are, nevertheless, calming, soothing. The chanting never seems to actually stop, but gently fades away into the surrounding stones. When the last vestige of sound has passed the young man opens his eyes and smiles a most beatific smile.

" Please, give me your left wrist.” Andrew does as he is told. The young man ties a red string to Andrew's proffered wrist. " For your chakras" he says, then "repeat carefully after me, three times please, Om Ma Ni Pod Me Hum." Andrew does, then reaches into his bag to get some money. The young man, seeing Andrew's action, touches him gently on the arm. " No" he says,"thank you", and smiles once more. The young man then motions for Andrew to leave, which Andrew does. Andrew is bemused by the whole affair and, moments later, is a little startled when a woman with an American accent suddenly speaks to him. " Honey, did you just get that?" She says, pointing to Andrew's red band. "Yes, from a gentleman over there" Andrew points to a wall. "Where Honey?" "I thought it was there. Maybe I'm turned around, sorry. It was a monk, I think, saffron robed and all that." Andrew explained. "It must be back there," he said. "Gee. Okay honey I guess we'll find him" then turning to her husband "I guess it's back there" "But," starts her husband, "Come on Claude, I really want one of those bands to show off to Marge. It's bad enough that we're stranded here with her always showing off. I wan it to be our turn okay?" She says as the couple slowly disappear from Andrew’s sight and hearing. Andrew retraces his steps. For ten minutes Andrew wanders around but still cannot find the place where he met the 'golden' young man. "Odd" he mutters "distinctly odd." He shrugs, and continues his wandering amidst the ancient Angkor stones, with a growing hunger that only food for the body will quell. ………………… Four months have come and gone, five, eventually six months have shimmered by in the Cambodian heat and occasional monsoonal rain. It is September. Malaysia remains closed 103

to overseas visitors until the following year. Cambodia is opening up and is beginning to clamp down on its visa over-stayers, despite an earlier amnesty. This clamp down is not good news for Andrew. Elderly Government official Sinn Sisamouth (from the Cambodian Immigration Department) brings news regarding Andrew's position. Sinn uses Meyta as a translator. "He say Government been patient over-stayers because pandemic. Now have to leave. Same all overstayers. Can give one month then leave or prison." "Bloody hell" says Andrew. " And you've told him I can't get back to Malaysia because they're not letting tourists in?" "He know, he say sorry. But Government very strict." Sympathises Meyta. "Shit!" "Andrew, Art also worry about air-con. Ask when you leave. I tell don't know." "Okay". Andrew doesn't want to argue with Meyta. She has been so kind, so helpful, just like a daughter in fact. The crunch has come. It's time for Andrew to weigh his options as he has obviously worn out his welcome in Cambodia, and at 'Art will save the world'. ………………… "I have to leave", Andrew messages Sugar. He explains the elderly Khmer gentleman's visit and his own current predicament regarding the charity founder Art. After ten minutes Andrew receives a reply. "Sorry. Working, talk later yeah". The situation with Sugar has deteriorated to the extent that Andrew is convinced that no good can come of staying in the relationship after the brouhaha of arguing about love and friendship with Sugar. When his tears have finally ceased, Andrew Goodchild can breathe again. The breath still gets caught in his throat, but he is able to function at least. Later, after work, and twisting the painfully emotional knife, Sugar says… "I am very comfortable moving towards spiritual life." 104

This is followed by "And I am happy with the arrangement we are having at home". Andrew had been far from happy with the ‘arrangement’. Not happy sleeping alone, little sex and seeing Sugar almost by appointment, and he says so. This does not make the situation any better. To try to understand Andrew writes.... “So, just to clarify, you do not want intimacy with me. You do not want us to be lovers and share our bodies”. Her reply shocks Andrew, the ground moves in an entirely bad way. “No...I don’t want the intimacy, I don’t want to share our bodies, I don’t want us to be lover…. We reached a stage where we have lost that kind of love.” Still grasping for meaning Andrew expresses “Sugar. You were everything to me.” Her reply… ”Sorry….and you know it very clear that you are not my everything”. Such is Andrew’s state of mind that he decides to just forget everything. Forget the visa hassle, forget he has nowhere to go, forget that the erstwhile love of his love has just jilted him. He buys a cheap bottle of Australian Merlot and slams it into the fridge. Hours later, when the white wine is chilled enough, Andrew drinks glass after glass until, in his grief, he has drained the entire bottle. He gets drunk. The only problem is, that instead of forgetting everything Andrew ends up remembering and being drunk at the same time. He is a morose, not a happy, drunk. ………………… And Andrew is not happy now. Malaysia is (approximately) seven hours and 6,500 heartbreaking miles away. Andrew’s mood is reflected in the early morning work faces of his fellow ‘Tube’ passengers. Grey or black dressed (be-masked) commuters fill

Andrew's Underground carriage, silently intent on mourning their loss of liberty under Standard Operating Procedures (SOP) and Social Distancing of their lives, while awaiting their various Friday evening freedoms. As if living in some dystopian nightmare the near silent, sparsely populated, Tube-train carries Andrew to Holborn where he must change to the Central Line to get to Liverpool Street station and, eventually, to the Essex coast of Blicton-on-sea. London is depressingly different, subdued. On the train platforms Andrew witnesses scenes of 'The Day Shift' from Fritz Lang's Metropolis, where grey clad, hunched figures, their heads bowed, drag booted feet reluctantly in their procession towards work. In a now distant and forever sunny Siem Reap, sunny people rarely wear face masks. Deaths from the pandemic are non-existent, and the predominantly youthful Honda ‘Scoopy’ riding figures exude vibrance. In plague city London mask wearing is mandatory as there have been over 6,000 deaths from Covid 19, and 46,000 deaths over the United Kingdom in total due to the pestilence. For Andrew the contrast could not be more marked.10, Bournemouth Road, Blicton-on-sea, is a one bedroom bungalow. It is at the land end of the road, seconds from the opposite end where a grey North Sea buffers the coastline of the East of England. It is January, three months since Andrew last heard from Sugar. Blicton's daytime temperature is cool. It is swept by a sea breeze and is decidedly uncomfortable for Andrew. He arrives (at lunchtime) to his internet-rented accommodation. Unlocking the door, he slings in his rucksack of minimal clothing and re-locks the door and shivers.

The Bournemouth Road bungalow is very basic. The front door leads into a small hallway with a tiny kitchen to the left housing a cooking area, a fridge freezer and a small washing machine. This is followed by a bathroom with standing shower, toilet and wash basin, that in its turn is followed by the bedroom with enough room for a queen sized double bed, a cosy wardrobe and a small white painted bedside table, replete with a gingham cloth covering. To the right is the lounge/dining room which is the same size as everything to the left. It has a French window leading to a patch garden just big enough to dry clothing on the line provided. The bungalow, such as it is, is clean, unprepossessing and is a place to await the turning of the tides. Andrew's nine months in Cambodia, his sixteen years in total of his former life in Asia seem like opium dreams now. Swaying coconut palms, waving banana fronds, aromatically frangipani and jasmine scented nights have given way to morning mist and brisk salty sea breezes. Andrew is well aware that a cycle has ended. Although technically he is back home, in reality Andrew has far less in common in Britain and the British than in all his Asian wanderings. A freshly solo Andrew has become an expatriate in his own country. He is caught between two worlds, to neither of which does he belong. He is faced with a dilemma. All his belongings, save the contents of his small rucksack, are in Kuala Lumpur. Should he wait the pandemic out, buy a ticket when he can, and fly back to salvage what might be left of his life in Asia or, simply...Not.

“I really must buy a coat” he reminds himself. Summer departed with a whimper. Autumn slid into Winter. Hungry, Andrew walks out for lunch before actually inspecting his ‘let’. "Bacon, eggs and chips and a cuppa, alright my love?" Repeats Carole, the busty dyed blonde (ageing) waitress. Andrew knows that he is back in England when he spies an obviously much used bottle of HP Sauce, seated on the scratched red chequered (plastic) table cloth. 105

Sunil Sigdel

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Fridas (Revise of “The two Fridas”).

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Deconstruction of the self

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I have been working with many mediums to represent my thoughts and feelings since my artistic career was started. The subject matters in my work involve sociopolitical crisis of my country as well as the Globe and different incidents of my own life. I live in Pokhara, the beautiful silent place near Himalayas, but I am aware of the present situation of my own society as well as the world. My background is painting although I do installation, performance, video work & photography. I am interested to apply many different implements to make my work meaningful against many odds. I have in mind to do something out of the 'conventional' giving a new approach and language in the context of Nepal. I have a perception to develop my works and deepen myself taking my work to a dynamic direction. I would prefer an environment where I would be able to develop my thoughts, angle of vision and the true conception of art.

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"Glory with Soreness"

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"Faceless Face "

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Fused with Soreness

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Metamorphosis of Silence

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Branded “Marxist Couch”

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Kali (Revise of “portrait of Negress”)

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“My Goddess Lost the Battle”

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penang botan sean thow

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nical gardens

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Penang Island, Malaysia, was named after the ‘Pinang’ betel plant indigenous to that island. The area is equatorial, and tropical by its nature. D.S. Jones (in his paper ‘The ‘Waterfall, Botanic Garden on Pulau Pinang: The Foundations of the Penang Botanic Gardens 18841910) mentions “Botanic gardens in South-East Asia made a significant contribution during the discovery and dissemination of flowering and economic botany throughout the world from the mid-1800s to the mid-1900s.” Meanwhile photographer Sean Thow has given an extra sprinkling of his magic to capture these images of the Penang Botanic Gardens…. Sean mentions that “the Botanical Gardens of Penang, a legacy of the British, a place where plants, shrubs and trees from all over the British Empire were brought, as a sort of tropical open air conservatory, set with waterfall and flanked by hills, its also called the ‘Waterfall Gardens’, where a stream runs from the fall and meanders its way out of the garden - filled with guppies, frogs, and monitor lizards. My recollection from a photograph of me - old enough to sit up right and my father taken with a German twin lens reflex camera back in the early fifties has somehow stuck in the back of my mind when I started my photography pursuit, which consisted of many such cameras in my collection. Fast forward to when I have children of my own. I still take them retracing the steps my parents took all those years ago. Strangely the place hasn't change a bit, the well manicured grassed slopes with keepers who laboriously attend to lawns, leaving them clean and tidy. Today we see more people visiting the gardens for the early or late evening walks along two ringed pathways, a sloping climb to the reservoir while the other gentle flat walk for the elderly to enjoy the fresh fragrant air amidst monkeys, gibbons and singing song birds. Even sitting there is enough to de-stress any over worked individual.”

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Pratiksha Jain Pratiksha Nagesh Jain, Maharashtra India. I work mainly on the subject of freedom. Nature itself is the living embodiment of liberation. The freedom of nature is constantly making us aware of its expansion. The colors of nature, the lines, their shapes and the transparency I have used in the picture. The shapes in nature are observed and photographed and used in the picture. I have worked on topics that happen around me that are connected to my thoughts or memory. Some memories of my childhood with my mother. I have made a series of pictures with them still alive in my memory. Because memories are always refreshed by what is happening around us and every memory comes to us in a new form. The shapes in nature also bear resemblance to other characters in their original form. So I show transparency in nature and the nature of memories.

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Alive memories

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Self-conscious

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Alive memories 2

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Alive memories 3

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Bounded freedom 2

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Bounded freedom

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Unsaid memories

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ravinder sharma

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Beauty in Art is not a pale copy of beauty in life. Art is conception of the beauty in the real world, it singles out and underlines features of the beautiful in the phenomena depicted, intensifying their impact on man, and moulding in him the capacity to recognize and reach a deeper understanding of the beauty of life itself, and the need to take delight in beauty. In his Aesthetic Hegel emphasized that insofar as the spirit and its works stand higher than natural beauty. Art always confronts man with concrete facts taken from life, with events and experiences. So these paintings and drawings are not only a concrete depiction of certain phenomena from the real world, but also expression of specific events that often leave me in emotional state. The images in my paintings embody my struggle which I am undergoing to find a harmony in the Real and the Ideal and Physical and the Metaphysical. Founder and Director at Ravinder Sharma Art Academy, Chandigarh, India

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Obeid Salem dry ink pens

He is a self taught artist from Yemen, living in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

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Terri Chong

China on a plate

Steamed Clams “The additional condiments added to the clam make this dish extra delicious”.

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TERRI CHONG Born and grew up in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Terri Chong is a self taught entrepreneur and photographer who has travelled in and out of China since year 2000 in search of a better life for her family, herself and to realize her many dreams. Her frequent travels and her growing up in a poor family incurring a struggling childhood have brought her face to face with many challenges and hardships in life. However, all these did not deter her from continuing to chase her dreams. Back then, China was a land less travelled by people and this is where her pioneering spirit has led her to where she is today. Looking back, she can still remember people said, “if you can survive in China, you can survive anywhere”. And she survived despite all the obstacles which almost made her gave up on her dreams! Throughout her years of travel around China, from big cities to small remote villages, she has come into contact with poor and abandoned old folks, children and poverty stricken people. Through it all, she has seen and learnt much about the value of life.

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Crystal dumpling

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“A fine Teochew cuisine.Tasty and juicy fillings of meat and other condiments finely wrapped up in crystal clear skin. The best ones are found in Shantou City.”. 167

Braised goose and internal organs platter selection

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.“One of the most iconic of Chaoshan/Teochew dishes. The braised goose here is tender and moist and the sauce is very tasty The best of course will be found in Shantou City or Chaozhou” 169

Fried mantou with minced meat and vegetables

“I was made to understand that this dish was once the daily food of peasants and farmers. But it has since becomes a luxury dish at famous city restaurants around China.” 170

Yam and sweet potato

“A Chaoshan dessert speciality made up of coated yam and sweet potatoes with sugar syrup and served piping hot. I have tasted the best from Shantou City.” 171

Wild mushrooms for hot pot or soup.

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“I tasted this dish in Shantou during one of the winter dinners. Extremely good taste with a unique kind of aroma from the mushrooms” 173

Chilled Pork Leg Lard

“This is one of the most famous and fine cuisine of the Teochew people. The fat pork leg is marinated and braised till very soft. It will then be put to refrigerate until it becomes jellylike. and served cold. The best is found in Shantou City or Chaozhou” 174

Cockles

“These are widely eaten in Shantou City and Chaoshan The extra condiments of garlic, spring onions, sauces and other unknown ingredients elevated the cockles to a very delicious dish.”.

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Braised Pumpkin Broth With Lotus seeds

“This is a popular Teochew delicacy. Very fine, very smooth.This one I have tasted is one of the best in Shantou City.”

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3 cups braised fish head in claypot

“A super tasty Cantonese cuisine from Guangzhou, China.”

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martin bradley

singapore 2012

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Martin Bradley is the author of a collection of poetry - Remembering Whiteness and Other Poems (2012) Bougainvillea Press; a charity travelogue - A Story of Colors of Cambodia, which he also designed (2012) EverDay and Educare; a collection of his writings for various magazines called Buffalo and Breadfruit (2012) Monsoon Books; an art book for the Philippine artist Toro, called Uniquely Toro (2013), which he also designed, also has written a history of pharmacy for Malaysia, The Journey and Beyond (2014). Martin wrote a book about Modern Chinese Art with Chinese artist Luo Qi, Luo Qi and Calligraphyism from the China Academy of Art, Hangzhou, China, and has had his book about Bangladesh artist Farida Zaman For the Love of Country published in Dhaka in December 2019. He is the founder-editor of The Blue Lotus formerly Dusun an e-magazine dedicated to Asian art and writing, founded in 2011.

malaysia 2012

bangladesh 2019

hilippines 2013

china 2017

malaysia 2014

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To access this free e-chapbook click the link below https://issuu.com/martinabradley/docs/being_here_now_

The Blue Lotus magazine Special Issue 5

Articles inside

turning of the tides

bernard halibut and the bird of prey

pan yuliang

marriage and mutton curry by m. shanmughalingam