the truth machine

Dear Readers,

In this week's post, theokwek calls on a dearly remembered time from the past. he'll be flying off on tues anyway x)

The Straight Times Editor

Climb

Our church rests on the slope of a little hill, its basement levels at the bottom of the knoll and the ground floor itself at the ‘peak’ – if it can be called that. The unofficial stairway between the two was a concrete slant built into the slope, infested with brambles and climbers that, when added to the ever-mysterious patch of waist-high wild grass below, created a veritable ‘never-never-land’ of my childhood.

Jutting out from this concrete slope, both for stability and to prevent erosion in our unimaginably wet monsoon seasons were angular slots at various regular intervals, providing every eager adventurer a foothold to the giddy height of the ‘summit’. Sometime before I discovered the joys of this land, someone had laid a plank across two of the slots, and this simple, thoughtfully-constructed bench proved to be the seat of many carefree, heartfelt chats.

We used to go there every Sunday afternoon, when the service, catechism class and lunch were over. It was a time in our lives when we had not yet been called up to the duties of church-going teenagers, such as helping in the Library or joining the youth choir. The pressures and challenges of that adolescent age were also worlds away from us, and our emotions flowed with every phrase of chatter that passed between us, amidst the scent of a dozen tropical wildflowers and endless cicada calls from the forests beyond.

I remember once we discovered an ants-nest in our abode, as we were trudging to where a baby palm tree had just been planted the week before. What excitement struck when we stumbled upon that little tepee of soil, reaching like a finger from the ground and crawling with insects! I hardly remember feeling any fear at that time – having been at that fearless age of seven – and we charged like a troop of monkeys up to the pantry, where among the swooshing of aunties’ small talk we procured buckets of hot water.

These were promptly carried down to the ‘crime scene’, where for the next hour or so we self-righteously doused the infestation in bouts of steam, diligently knocking at its roots with branches and watching each ant swirl to its fate with bated breath. The girls joined in too – it was not the age of keeping dresses clean – and we completed the task with much laughter. Of course, within a week we’d forgotten where the carnage was (‘tis the ability of nature to cover its scars) but the joy of the escapade remained seared in our hearts.

There was also once when we discovered the nest of a kingfisher in the grass, a surly contraption of dried grass and shoots. The avian mother saw us approaching and hopped away, singing distractingly, but we soon came across its disguised haven. There were one and a half sky-blue speckled eggs in it – I say one and a half because the other was in a pitiful ruin of cracked shell and yolk. A snake molt nearby, discovered in the ensuing indignant search for the culprit, put us beyond guessing about whose meal the egg had turned out to be.

Of course, I call to mind the times of listless heart-to-heart talks on grassy carpets, where the secrets of puppy love and such dreams were divulged among the reports of the week’s happenings. And the times, too, of reckless clambering to the top of the concrete slope – more than 50 degrees steep and two floors high – where friendships were forged with every grasp of encouragement from cut and grimy fingers, and every helping hand that reached down to the next man – or boy, or girl – in line.

Now that slope, and yes, that childhood paradise, has long since overgrown with ivy, rattan, lovegrass and other anonymous shrubs. Perhaps those who are how old we were then still play in that world – where time could really be forgotten.