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# THE DANCE OF DESTINY

By

Raja Arasa RATNAM

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by R. Ratnam

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Dedicated

to

our

spirit guides

" _May the Lord of Love, who projects himself_

Into this universe of myriad forms,

From whom all beings come and to whom all return,

Grant us the grace of wisdom"

\- Shvetashvatara Upanishad

### THE DANCE OF DESTINY

Part 1 THE WHEELS FELL OFF

Endorsements

"... an extraordinary piece of work....it is unique because not only does it evoke in a rich fashion a life that has been extraordinary... but it also deeply reflective about what it means to be human.... an account of a journey of a soul, an account that enriches us as we continue on our individual pilgrimages through life."

Dr. Greg Melleuish, Associate Professor, School of History and Politics, University of Wollongong, NSW, and author

"As one might expect from a Tamil-Malayan-Australian, Raja Ratnam offers cross-grained reflections on his early life. Here is anecdote and analysis from an author who resorts to quotation despite sharpening epigrams of his own. Whether grieving or jocular, he is, by turn, percipient and puzzled, skeptical yet superstitious. The wheels have not fallen off his humanity."

Humphrey McQueen, historian and author, Canberra

"The witty, bittersweet reminiscences of a man travelling between cultures, observing and questioning systems and beliefs around him...This intriguing saga, packed with information on Tamil-Indian-Malay customs, offers a cosmic worldview with a twist."

Anne-Marie Smith, President, Multicultural Writers' Association of Australia

### Part 1 THE WHEELS FELL OFF

### Chapter 1

THE UPHEAVAL : LIFE UNDER THE JAPANESE

"War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-splitting art"

\- Lord Byron 1788-1824

A casual contact

Youth is never wasted on the young. A chief characteristic of youth is being inquisitive. In that, they are cat-like. Who hasn't observed a cat enter a room and carefully, and yet casually, inspect everything and everybody in that room? It is not a security check; it is simply a desire to know. So it was with two Ceylon Tamil boy-cousins, aged twelve and thirteen, who had noticed a white soldier standing guard outside his sentry-box. Normally, it would be a Malay soldier, splendidly attired, meticulously trained by British officers, who would be seen on guard duty at military installations. The sentry box was at the entrance to a school which was now a military camp. The soldiers were Australian – so Bala and I had been told by our uncle whom we were visiting during our school holidays.

It was a balmy late afternoon, with the setting sun lighting up the sky with the most glorious colours. With great curiosity we sauntered across to the sentry, and said "Hello, soldier." His reply was somewhat incomprehensible to us. Was he speaking English, we wondered privately. Well, it had to be English, hadn't it? Had not Australia been settled by the English? Almost simultaneously, we said, "Sorry, what did you say?" and moved a little closer; yet, with some trepidation. After all, the fellow had a rifle in his hand. As he might not want to be caught by his superior having his watch interrupted by two inquisitive boys, he might shoo us away. As a Japanese proverb has it, "A cat's friend is its caution."

We then began a conversation of a kind. In spite of the Australian's drawl and dry-as-dust accent, against our boyish fast speech with a Malayan Tamil accent, we were able to introduce ourselves to one another. To Indians, and their cultural cohorts the Tamils of Sri Lanka, speedy speech is an indicator of intelligence (as is a high forehead), a reflection of a quick mind. The sentry would not have known that, not at his level of responsibility in a military hierarchy. Anyway, the sentry seemed relaxed about talking to us. He told us that he was happy to be there. He could see no difficulty in teaching the Japanese a well-deserved lesson.

Our uncle (very much an Anglophile), having befriended a captain in the Australian contingent, had already offered some advice to us about dealing with the Australians. His advice, he said, had been influenced by the Aussie captain who had been a bank manager back home. I remember my uncle bringing the captain to an unplanned meal at my home. My mother, a most efficient cook, prepared a light meal for our unexpected guests. I also remember the Australian joining Bala and I in singing scout songs in the car on our way to our Uncle's distant home.

The initial advice given to us by our uncle was that the Australians we would meet would not be able to cope with words, in any language, longer than two syllables. Bala and I could not believe that, but we thought it prudent to be silent. Our cultural tradition was not to ever challenge senior members of the family. There was always the risk of a smack for not displaying adequate respect. Anyway, as was said by the famous Anon, "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."

However, the captain had apparently provided two examples to Uncle of the linguistic difficulty allegedly suffered by Australians. He had explained that the word papaya had been such a problem to his countrymen that they had coined a replacement more suited to their tongue – pawpaw; and the ubiquitous brinjal or aubergine (loved by Asians and Mediterraneans alike) had, for similar reasons, been translated to egg-plant. This had led to us scratching our heads in wonderment. We both attended a school with English as the medium of teaching. Our teachers, all Asian, had been well trained in the U.K. We had, of course, never seen a purple egg; and a paw multiplied by two surely meant an animal. We guessed that the Australian captain had spoken in jest, that is, with his tongue in both cheeks.

Mindful of our manners, we introduced ourselves as Bala and Raja. Promptly, the sentry addressed us as Bal and Raj. This was not good, as our parents would probably want to kill us for having our names so debased. In our culture, a personal name is not simply a handy or useful label. It is an artefact, a composite of terms reflecting religious affirmation and tribal beliefs. Significantly, in our tribe, a given name is a joining together of two or three words, each of which has its own religious or cultural significance. That is why an Indian or Sri Lankan name is such a mouthful to Europeans, and possibly to others.

For example, in the decade of the noughties in the twenty-first century, news readers in the Australian Broadcasting Corporation continue to mangle Asian names. They have yet not received appropriate guidance in the pronunciation of these names. For example, President Hu of China was once presented to us Mr. Hugh! In earlier times, we had the Maha-brata (the big loaf?) instead of the Mahabharatha, the famous Indian epic. What the news readers (as well as the commentators in international cricket) do to Indian names is near blasphemous. Luckily for Bala and I, the soldier said that his name was Jack. We, in turn, were then not to know that, back in his country, there were so many Johns about that some of them had to be addressed as Jack. So I was told when I arrived in Australia. But I did wonder whether whoever said that to me was not displaying that Aussie sense of humour.

When, a few years after the end of the war, Bala and I went to university in Australia, we did find that the Australian people had a great, but slightly confusing, sense of humour, especially in relation to personal names. A red-headed person was called 'blue', a bald person was 'curly', a short person was 'lanky', a tall person was 'shorty', a close friend was 'you bastard', women were 'sheilas' (whatever that was), coloured people were 'boongs' or 'black bastards', East Asians (the then feared 'yellow hordes') were 'chinks', the then unwanted European migrants were 'wogs', and their own ancestral people, the British, were most often known warmly as 'poms', 'jocks' or 'paddies', reflecting the three main ethno-cultural strands forming the British people.

The non-Anglo people in Australia were, of course, not amused by the appellations. We also found it confusing whenever a friendly Anglo-Aussie greeted us with a smile, a warm pat on the back, and words such as "How are you, you old bastard?" For, to Europeans and Asians alike, the term bastard is an insult. To us, being or producing a bastard is not a laughing matter. Nevertheless, we early Asian arrivals in the White Australia policy era soon learnt that the Anglo-Aussie was then very much a racist. This racism was an unthinking reflection of the historic white Christian coloniser values prevailing wherever less technologically advanced peoples had been over-run and exploited.

Our exposure to the peculiarities of Australian society, and the political and demographic developments which were to eventuate in that great nation, were of course way into the future. In the meanwhile, Bala and I, our two families, and the Malayan population at large, felt grateful that the Australians had arrived to offer us protection from a most probable invasion. We did not know then that Australians had a habit of rushing off to fight on behalf of the mother country, even when Australia was not at risk. Even Roman Catholics of Irish descent, who did not then like their Protestant fellow-Australians, joined in wars on the side of the British! Our concern was that, in a global war between resource-hungry industrial nations, the Malayan people were very likely to finish up as mangled mince-meat. We were not, however, warned that this intended protection by Britain and Australia was to be as ephemeral in effect as that pre-dawn mist which, almost wistfully, caresses the hilltop vegetation at the equator, but only for a moment of time.

A speedy withdrawal

The attack was sudden. British propaganda, directed at both colonial rulers and native subjects, had played down the military capability of the alleged monkey-like, short-sighted men. They were always presented as wearing spectacles and with buck teeth. Their nation was popularly known only for its capacity to copy the West's industrial and consumer goods. Surely such inferior people would not dare to launch a clearly un-winnable war against the greatest industrial and colonial nations in the known brief history of mankind.

That was an inference we local people were invited to draw. Were we aware that Japan's attack on resource-rich south east Asia might have been in response to economic and/or political constraints applied by the West, particularly the USA? Yet, the great artistic traditions of the Japanese people, especially in poetry, painting, literature and ceramics, and their quaint customs relating to tea making and the role of geisha girls, were recognized as worthy by Western peoples, but perhaps only by the more effete members of these societies.

In the manner of a gawky teenager who had only recently metamorphosed into a well-muscled young adult, the British were said to be over-impressed with their relatively-recently achieved industrial and military prowess. They were clearly not mature enough, said my elders, to appreciate the lessons offered by their predecessors, just like a newly-developed young adult seeking to make his mark somewhere. I am reminded of the dogs wandering down my street, each claiming the same territory through the usual leg-lifting technique. My elders also said that the British were not adequately aware that power over other peoples had been shown by history to have built-in use-by dates. The conquerors of relevance were the muscular ones, such as the Mongol empires of the Great Khans, their predecessor the Huns, the truncated empire of Alexander the Macedonian (who had been sent packing by the Indians at the River Indus), and the empires of Napoleon, Rome and others. All of these were known for their descent into oblivion after vain, yet sometimes scintillating, efforts to remain viable.

The multi-ethnic peoples in Malaya had, of course, been kept informed of the destructive advance of Japan's military through north-east Asia. Presumably because that was an inter-Asian matter, the British propaganda perspective about the might of the white nations remained undefiled. It was not, however, unusual for us to see street sweepers and shop keepers assiduously reading, almost side by side, their vernacular newspapers on the footpaths about international developments. The shop keepers, especially the Chinese with their singlets rolled up to expose their midriff, sat on stools, the sweepers (Indian and Chinese) squatted at the kerb. The Chinese shopkeepers liked to sip tea from little china cups whilst fanning their mid-regions. Indian shop keepers preferred, instead, to cool their tea by pouring it from one brass tumbler into another and back again, at a goodly height. My father said that this demonstrated that the Chinese had a better understanding of the laws of physics in relation to human-body homeostasis.

Ironically, those reading vernacular newspapers were more likely to be better informed than those who relied on newspapers in English. The Indians and Chinese, calmly confident in the knowledge that their cultural history goes back proudly and continuously for at least five thousand years (so most of them insist), were more likely to be realistic in reading the signs of international political developments, both in the movements of the planets and on Earth. Among the short-sighted English language-dependent readers were those Indians and Ceylonese who chose to mislead themselves about the Caucasian origins they felt they shared with their colonial masters, and whose manner of dress and behaviour they tended to emulate. These sycophantic 'black Englishmen' (as they were described by their more chauvinistic countrymen) were most likely to be beguiled by colonial propaganda, and therefore unprepared for Japan violating us.

The bombs began to fall whilst I was having a violin lesson. I did not hear them initially, although they were falling only about three miles away. Born into a tradition that children were to be only seen and not heard, I lacked the confidence necessary to allow any talent for musical expression to manifest itself, and then to possibly flower. Whilst I sawed away on my cheap violin, imported from England by my Goanese teacher, the explosion of the bombs on the local airfield alerted my family to the frightening reality of the beginning of a dreaded war. It was very worrying to note the apparently cumbersome British fighter planes striving unsuccessfully, with their engines roaring, to reach the Japanese bombers way above them. Whilst none of us had been anywhere close to a war, we feared what might happen to us innocent civilians. We had, of course, seen those Indian films, each about four hours long, each depicting the spectrum of all the good things as well as the terrible things that could happen to mankind. Amidst the disasters and death displayed were scenes of war, and their physical and moral destruction. We could not possibly look into the future with any peace of mind.

My young violin tutor, a member of a highly talented musical family whose teenagers were often seen playing the violin as they walked about their home, cycled off in a great panic. That an Indian family from the Portuguese enclave of Goa in India could display such an affinity for Western music had previously been explained to me by the probability that an educated expatriate, whether priest, pirate or planter, had provided the necessary seeding at the time the family had been clasped to the bosom of the Pope. As my family watched the aerial debacle in despair, they must have wondered whether the British were capable of beating off the despised attacker. The Japanese were already well known for their brutality.

The next day being a normal day, I cycled to market, about three miles away. There the fish would have been caught the day before, and brought overnight to the nation's capital. The vegetables would have been extracted from the soil around the township at dawn. Years later, as a citizen of Australia, I would buy from my air-conditioned supermarkets food that had left the ground or the sea anything from three days to three weeks before, such being the deleterious consequence of living in a highly developed nation. On route to the market, I was horribly surprised to see Japanese planes dropping their bombs. These seemed to be linked vertically by some invisible string, and visibly falling in my direction. Together with two others, I scrambled under a low concrete culvert, wondering whether this protection would be adequate; or whether we might be buried under it. One of my neighbours, a Chinese, pulled out a chain of beads and began to count them with his eyes closed. He is a Christian, I thought. The other Chinese must have been praying silently, for his lips were most active. Probably a Buddhist, I surmised.

Being a Hindu, I simply waited for what might come. Perhaps I was just a little stupid. But the bombs did not reach us. Instead, they hit their target, the railway station, not that far away. My family, true to tradition, displayed no fuss on my safe return, with the shopping complete. This was not because they were cold-blooded. We were simply a somewhat emotionally-controlled family. Much later in life, I did wonder whether the proverbial stiff upper lip of the British ruling class had been learnt from Indians cast in the mould of my family. Nevertheless, it has to be recognized that my family's behaviour was an exception to the prevailing tradition of most of the peoples of Asia. These express their emotions noisily, even in public.

My family, like the rest of the people waited in great fear about the damage the war would cause, the uncertainty of existence, and of being unable to feed ourselves. We realised that we were at the mercy of both attacker and defender. So, we waited patiently. The uncertainty was a terrible burden for the adults. If injured, who would look after us? Would there be any medication available? Where? What about transport? We had always relied on bicycles and buses, with some use of the sooty steam train for interstate travel. My predominant memory of train travel is having my eyes forever filled with some fragment of soot. That was caused by looking out of the permanently open windows, as there was no air conditioning. A major issue for the family was where our food would come from. So, my father filled our store room as quickly as possible with dry food such as rice, beans, peas, lentils and such like. Another major concern was – who would protect us from thieves and ruffians? So, the men in our cluster of houses armed themselves with staves, and agreed to work together for mutual protection. Tribal origins became more irrelevant than usual. Fear and hope bonded us all.

Recorded history shows unequivocally that the Japanese out-planned, out-manouvred, and out-fought the British, Indian and Australian defenders. They could not have heard about the guideline for war set out by their historical Queen Victoria: "We are not interested in the possibilities of defeat." It was an ignominious and, what was worse, a hasty withdrawal by our colonial masters. Obviously, they could not afford to have much regard for our plight. They couldn't, could they? One of my uncles, a volunteer in the military, withdrew with the British forces to Singapore. When all was lost, he virtually walked back home. To his great joy, his family was safe. His son Bala and I were the only protection three young mothers and nine younger children had, whilst we hid in the coolie 'lines' of a vacated rubber estate. Each estate would normally have produced sheets of smoked rubber. The source material was a white sticky sap, which oozed from daily cuts into the trunk of a rubber tree. The collection of this sap was made at the crack of dawn. The tappers and their families, very dark south Indian immigrants, were invariably stick-thin. They were cheap exploitable indentured labour.

Avoiding the bombs

When the bombs fell over the nation's capital, my uncle Kuna had been visiting his sister, my mother, and his elder brother Ratna, Bala's father. He visited us frequently, always arriving with a bottle of expensive sweets imported from Britain. He was a kind, gentle man. Bala and I lived about a hundred yards apart, and we were constant companions. More importantly, by tribal tradition, the extended family formed a close-knit social unit. The mothers were often in each other's homes, as were the children. Whenever either mother cooked our traditional cakes or some other delicacy, a plateful would be delivered to the other family. The plate would be returned immediately, usually with a piece of fruit on it. All gifts were thus acknowledged. Perhaps only a civilized people behaved thus.

Occasionally, cousin Bala and I would trot over to his house from the field on which we played, looking for refreshments. My aunt would provide a drink and a cake. This might be accompanied - I am not sure why – by some pertinent advice about living, and codes of conduct. Perhaps we asked. Thus, after my mother, she was the most influential woman during my formative years. She must have known that I considered her wise. For, on the night she died, at a very advanced age, she appeared to me as I was falling asleep. She looked exactly the way she did in those years.

Our home was the meeting place for the brothers and their sister and her family. They would chat about all manner of things. As long as I was silent, I could serve the customary cakes and tea, and sit in and listen – and learn – about a range of issues which served me well as I grew up. I listened to talk about politics, both international and local, religion, the community, and much else. The men had very strong views, which were not always in agreement. Through these conversations, and the support and encouragement he gave me to excel in my studies and in sport, led me to see him, after my father, as the most influential man during my formative years. It was not surprising that his spirit should appear in a significant psychic experience to offer me guidance. This was after my retirement from work. His advice was in relation to my spiritual development. That did not surprise me, as there is evidence from anthropological studies that the maternal uncle can have a significant influence in the progression of youth to manhood. In my case, the post-retirement advice was timely.

As a metaphysical Hindu, a church-going Christian, and a freethinker who believes that all the major religions are equal in their potential, I had become attracted, post-retirement, to a specific vision of the future. Having completed my family responsibilities, and whilst I continued to work for the betterment of my community (even as a marginal member), I wanted to understand the Cosmos, and my place in it. I also wanted to understand why I had been 'dumped' into a strange land with no extended family or tribal community support. More importantly, family history having suggested an early demise, I was particularly interested in the nature of Reality, and the 'Way Station' which I expected to join soon. But all that was to come later.

Listening to my elders, I also learnt a lot about ethnic community relations. This was a country in which Chinese, Indian and Ceylonese immigrants had over-run the indigenous Malays in government administration and other employment, as well as commerce and trade. The immigrants brought in a great variety of languages, and were thereby unable to communicate readily with anyone outside their language group, without the shared language of Malay or English. These we learnt as best as we could. Some grouches about work and other personal problems would surface during some of the conversations. These brought to me another level of reality. The strange names of British colonial rulers, such as Duff Cooper or Shenton Thomas, amongst others, raised my further interest in the kind of people who would leave their homes to govern others in strange and generally unwelcoming places.

Unlike those who had moved homes in order to either rule (for the benefit of their mother country) or to exploit (for personal reasons), the three young mothers in the extended family and their eleven children were soon moved into Kuna Uncle's home (in our community's tradition, the person's name precedes the identifier of relationship).This move had been precipitated by Kuna Uncle because he had panicked at the sight of his beloved British being clearly beaten in aerial combat. With the consent of the men folk, the two families in the capital were initially rushed to his home for safety.

I remember the little car we travelled in. It had two doors. The four windows were canvas screens which were clipped onto the frames of the doors in front, and the body of the car at the back. Each screen had a celluloid insert which allowed vision. Long before this intended escape from Japanese bombs, I had once punched my fist through one of the screens, whilst wrestling with my cousin. We had obviously been bored. Our uncle, being a kind man, had merely chastised us. Kuna Uncle's house was very familiar to Bala and I. Once a year, we would spend a week or so there. It was there that I attempted frequently to parachute from the roof of his garage (about eight feet high), using a towel! There was also a mango tree next door, whose fruit-laden branches overhung the dividing fence. We used to knock down the occasional green mango by throwing stones. We ameliorated the sharp bite of the taste by first dipping the flesh into crushed salt. What we did not like about our holiday visits was the required polishing of Kuna Uncle's vast collection of brass objects. His intention might have been to reduce our time for getting into trouble.

A few days after our arrival in the small township on the road south to Singapore, Japanese planes bombed the railway station, presumably to deny any retreat of the defenders by rail. The station was a very short distance away, as the crow flies, from Kuna Uncle's home. We took refuge in a large concrete pipe set up as an air raid shelter in the back yard, in which we sat with our feet in about three inches of water. There, we felt the blast of the bombs very vibrantly. When we re-entered the house, it looked as if it had been well shaken. Everything above floor height, especially the brass collection, was now on the floor. From out of the frying pan into the fire, I thought, with all the wisdom of a teenager. The three young mothers must have been terrified.

Such proximity to the war led to Kuna Uncle moving the three families into a rubber estate. Whilst we were now away from the bombing, we were fairly close to the trunk road to Singapore. There, the constant retreat of the defenders was clearly visible to us. What if there was fighting along this road? What if the Japanese continued to encircle the defenders by charging through the rubber estate, in the same way they were reportedly working their way through the jungles adjacent to the trunk roads from north to south, and cutting off the path of retreat of the defenders? The mothers worried about these matters fruitlessly, as I overheard. Worse still, we were all exposed to any robbers or ruffians who might venture our way. It was a very unsafe hideaway from war. Hindsight said that we should have stayed at home. Yet, what could one expect from youngish men, in their late thirties, with young families to protect, to do?

In this context, I do remember the three mothers asking one another why the British, Indians and Australians were retreating instead of fighting. "If you're not going to use your army, may I borrow it?" as said by President Lincoln during the American civil war comes to mind. In their collective wisdom, the mothers subsequently agreed that, if the British could not beat off the Japanese, it was better for us that they ran. Otherwise, there would be destruction but without benefit. But, they did wonder at the strategy of the British to retreat to the island of Singapore, where all that the Japanese had to do was to cut off the water supply from the mainland. Obviously, there had been some discussion earlier within each family about military strategies. Of course, we were all aware that the British had defensive guns facing out to sea on Singapore Island. As was shown by later wars, such as the Vietnam war, successful Asian attackers thought outside the square! The military strategies of the Mongol warriors in eastern Europe comes to mind.

Our life in the rubber estate was fairly harsh. Each mother and her children slept on straw mats placed on a bare timber platform. This took up half of a pokey room. Outside this room was an open verandah which had a raised block to hold a grinding stone for spices. For both the rubber tappers and our families, this equipment was essential to the preparation of meals. We could not possibly conceive of food unspiced. A fireplace had also been provided for cooking. Water was available from a communal tap serving a few housing blocks of about six rooms each. Washing clothes required the women to walk a fair distance down a slope to a babbling creek. Toilets were open pits, which the little ones were afraid to use. When we went to sleep, the front and back doors were firmly locked in each of the family rooms. There were no windows. Security over-rode ventilation.

All food had to be brought in by Kuna Uncle in his little car. The three mothers, whose ages ranged from the mid-twenties to early thirties, had grown up in fairly harsh rural environs in north Ceylon. This area had apparently been settled by Hindu Tamils from south-east and central India more than a thousand years before. They were therefore not unused to a life of hard work and hardship; yet their life in the rubber estate was a descent into a more harsh and insecure life. Worse still, we had also to become accustomed to the unpleasant odour of smoked rubber sheets, which over-hung everything. What had prevented this odour from being dissipated in time?

This life in smelly but silent surroundings was enlivened by the urgent buzzing of mosquitoes at night, and the chatter by day of the younger children. I think that we, the children, thoroughly enjoyed being together. Naturally, the older ones helped to look after the young ones. One day, whilst the younger children were playing in a circle in the dust outside, I noticed a python, thick and many feet long, pass languidly through the circle. By the time the little ones had panicked, the snake had moved on. It could not have been hungry. Bala and I were, of course, required to accompany the women to the creek, which produced a lovely sound and looked terrific in the sunlight, to help with the washing. There is something in the sight and sound of moving water which satisfies the human soul.

Was our original home in the waters of Earth or elsewhere? Indeed, late in life, I do wonder if the yearning in some of us for travel in space – in whatever dimension – reflects a distant memory of origins, as well as homes elsewhere. That is, we might be intuitively aware that Earth is only a place for a short sojourn. Or, are such speculations merely the musings of a 'dragon', that is, of one born in the (Chinese) Year of the Dragon, and thus with an instinctive urge to explore sky and sea?

Bala and I also helped with the grinding of the spices and, generally, to behave as responsible males. We had to look after the little ones. By inference, we had to protect our mothers and aunt. Maturity was thrust upon us prematurely, at thirteen and twelve, respectively. We did not realise it then but, in effect, we both lost the simple pleasures of boyhood after that. For, life was never the same on our return to our homes.

Then, one of my youngest cousins, aged about two, fell seriously ill. Soon it was clear that she was dying. My mother, who had carefully secured a few antibiotic (sulfonamide) tablets from somewhere, saved her niece by feeding her the medication. She would have realised that there would be no possible replenishment of this life-saving drug. After all, her own daughter was of the same age. It did not help that there was no milk, fish, eggs or meat to sustain the growing children. There was no one around to take the child for treatment; there was no one, no place, to take the child to. This set the pattern of our life for the next few years, when we would grow taller but leaner, with the risk of an untreatable severe illness or mishap our constant companion.

On one occasion, a sole looter somehow found us, and sold us much-needed straw hats and some top quality handkerchiefs. I remember that the handkerchiefs were of Egyptian cotton. The brand name was 'Pyramid'. I fumed for months when Kuna Uncle purloined my new hat, after he had misplaced his.

When it was clear that the British were on the run, Kuna Uncle joined the three families. One night, my uncle and I decided to take a walk – into a pitch-black night. Were we mad? But, a break from confined quarters was obviously necessary for him. A short distance away, however, we saw a pair of greenish eyes looking us over from an embankment. There must have been a smidgen of light in the sky available to be reflected from the animal's eyes. Our unspoken about-turn and rapid withdrawal was indeed very, very silent. No one else was told about this. We subsequently agreed that the eyes had been too far apart to belong to an ordinary cat. After that night, we kept a very close watch on the little ones as they played outside.

With the fall of Singapore, Ratna Uncle, the former army volunteer, also joined us. He had retreated with the British, and then somehow got himself back, travelling against the tide of the traffic. Never known for being unnecessarily subtle, what he had to say about our British overlords on his return was apparently very colourful. To my great surprise, any mention by me over the nearly sixty years I have lived in Australia about the retreat by the Australians in Malaya was not generally well received. Was it a sense of national shame or an indication that the reputation of those of their relatives involved had to be protected? The return of Ratna Uncle introduced an added concern to the three young mothers. He had brought back his privately-owned revolver, which he then hid carefully between the supports for the grinding stone. If the Japanese had found it,...!

Before that, one morning, the younger children waved, as always, at an army truck going south. There were never any such trucks going north. That morning, the soldiers who returned their waves were seen to be wearing soft caps. We suddenly realized that they were Japanese. The panic that followed our sighting of the feared Japanese was not easily assuaged. For, the advancing troops had been described as kamikaze, on their way to a willing and glorious death. They seemed cheerful enough to us. Perhaps the sight of young children playing (and waving to them) lifted their spirits.

When it was clear that the Japanese military occupation had begun, we returned to our respective homes. Kuna Uncle's car was a great boon. He was fortunate that the advancing troops had not sighted it. For, the troops were in such a hurry that they commandeered every vehicle and bicycle they came across. When they did this, they amazingly gave the reluctant donor to their war effort a signed receipt! They were indeed courteous, according to a 'donor' who was a near neighbour of ours.

Back home, my father had been on night patrol, together with our neighbours, to protect our homes (and the store rooms). They then began to worry about their new life under a Japanese military occupation, wondering how they would fare. The good news was that, whilst our British overlords had not been able to protect us, they had not contributed to a scorched-earth policy. My father, a quietly perceptive man, thought that they did not have enough fire-sticks either. Anyway, they were in a great hurry. The battleship defence of Malaya promised by their government back home had been recently drowned most effectively by Japanese planes. And the Japanese ground troops kept out-pacing them.

As immigrants, who are the true adventurers of mankind, my elders could cope with the insecurity of employment or occupation, and the broader uncertainty of existence in a foreign land. They were aware too that the traditional owners of the land, the Malays, might not be pleased about the massive incursion of a wide range of immigrant opportunists with foreign cultures. This would be in spite of the fact that much of Malay culture and the traditions of Malay royalty, especially on the west coast, had been influenced substantially over hundreds of years by Hindu Indians.

The rulers and cultures of Annam (now in East Vietnam), Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Burma, Java, Sumatra and Bali had been similarly influenced. Until being overlaid by the teachings and practices of Islam, again through the Indians, the people of south east Asia had been deeply acculturated by Hindu culture. The displays of culture in modern Thailand and Indonesia continue to reflect the Ramayana, the religion-impregnated love story of Rama and his wife Sita. The garments, headgear and armlets worn by Malay royalty, especially in west Malaya, are also Indian in origin. However, in an administration by a military known for its brutality in China, all the residents, whether immigrant or local born, were in the same boat. Our future was never so uncertain.

Although my parents said nothing in my hearing, I sensed their fear as they waited for the Japanese military administration to show its hand. Hopefully, the Japanese would need a speedy return to normality. They would need to revive a government administration first. They also needed to feed their troops. Because the old order had been extinguished and a new order had not been put in place, we remained in a cold crevasse of anxiety and uncertainty.

Life under the Japanese military

The early days

For nine months after the sudden and unexpected end of British rule, my father remained unemployed. We lived, more frugally than ever, on our stored food, with fresh vegetables sold to us by enterprising Chinese farmers. These illegally occupied land on the fringe of the township. There was, naturally, no meat, fish or milk. The town people made an indirect contribution to the success of the vegetable farms through the night-soil (so-called) collected from our houses unofficially at dawn each day. It was not a good idea to be sitting on the family 'throne' when the collection was being made, or to be on the wind side of the huge buckets slung on both sides of a farmer's bicycle. I felt that no one worked as hard as these farmers. We were grateful for that, perhaps realising that their lives were of quiet desperation whereas ours was of subdued optimism. The money needed by my family for the food had been securely hidden, and was spent most carefully.

Saving for a rainy day or for the education of the children is an unavoidable practice for immigrants striving to survive in a strange land. Saving is also a cultural tradition for our tribal people. Respecting learning, they sought, generation after generation, to have their children educated – in any language, in any culture, in any endeavour, so long as economic (and later, social) betterment was in the offing. But they will hang on to as many of their cultural practices as possible, wherever in the world they lived. The savings would be well spent. To our people, survival is not enough; success is the ultimate goal, primarily through education. Borrowing from Diogenes (300 BC), the future of a people is in the education of their young.

Such a drive would take us into all corners of the world, where many or most would find our natural place in academe, and in the professions, but rarely in trade, politics or the public service. Were these seen to be demeaning occupations, or simply not financially rewarding, or just lacking in social status? Our cultural distaste of trade is a view shared by many other civilizations, in spite of the wealth potentially available to the fortunate. Our rejection of politics and the public service in countries into which we migrate reflects our understanding of human behaviour. Equal opportunity in occupying the sacred sites of power in our new homes could not be expected for at least two generations. This does not prevent the practice of excellence in the private sector, in the professions, and in academe.

Life under a military occupation can be hazardous. The Japanese ensured full compliance with their requirement of good behaviour, by collecting, very early in their governance, all the community leaders (how did they know who these men were?), and locking them into the small yard of each township's jails for a whole day, with no water, food, shelter from the sun, or use of toilets. At dusk, they were released, and warned to be good, co-operative citizens. They had been released from their British masters, hadn't they? They were now to become part of a great co-prosperity sphere of Asian nations established by Japan. Fear is a good inducement to co-operation, even if future co-prosperity might not be. Looters, whether Japanese or local residents, as well as any one who made clear their dislike of the Japanese, had their heads chopped off, and mounted on posts on street corners. 'One seeing is better than a hundred times telling about', as an ancient Chinese adage would have it. It was a most effective way of ensuring good behaviour, right from the beginning.

An on-going sensitivity to the power of the Japanese military was finally inculcated in our minds by requiring each person cycling or walking (our normal means of transport) to stop at any sentry post, to face the sentry, and then to bow deeply to him. As a Chinese proverb says, 'If you bow at all, bow low.' I found it difficult to bow from the waist over a bicycle, but made sure that it looked right. Any slackness perceived or sensed, any seemingly inadequate respect, would result in the offender being beckoned to the sentry. I have observed a coarse-featured sentry require an offender to stand near him, whilst he scrutinized us as we made our obeisance with due and visible respect. Suddenly, the sentry turned and whacked the offender by his side on the face with the butt of his rifle. The accompanying shout was in that guttural tone which seemed to be the hallmark of discourse by all the Japanese military. Indeed, the voice adopted by a senior officer in what seemed to me to be an ordinary transaction sounded threatening.

Some years later, I heard a wealthy Japanese business man address his son of about fifty years of age in that same tone. Was a potential for brutality built into the psyche of successful or powerful Japanese? In contrast, the Japanese dentist who looked after our teeth prewar was so courteous as to appear deferential. In any event, whilst our Japanese occupiers were not unnecessarily brutal, we were careful to walk and talk with surface respect in their presence.

The Japanese then sent teams of two armed soldiers to inspect each household. Pictures of the king in far-off England, and the British flag (the Union Jack), often hung by Christianised Indians or those Eurasians who saw themselves as Europeans (commonly on the basis of a distant, single white male ancestor), were hurriedly taken down and burned. The only houses not inspected were those occupied by someone with a receipt for that bicycle or vehicle acquired by the hurrying advancing troops. My family home was also exempt from that inspection when a Christian Indian neighbour two houses away, having displayed his receipt, apparently showed the Japanese (by a combination of signs and words) that my family were close friends. This neighbour must have learnt the Japanese word for friend. On arrival at my house, when the door was opened by a very frightened young mother, both Japanese clicked their heels, bowed, smiled, said something in Japanese, and left.

As the Japanese foot soldier wore a soft boot, with the big toe encased separately, the click of heels was not as attention-grabbing as with leather boots. Officers, of course, wore leather boots, and also carried a sort of satchel. I now have one of the latter as a souvenir. A year or so into the Japanese Occupation, when I needed new shoes, I was able to buy a pair of the boots worn by the foot soldiers. I do not know why this structure was adopted. Perhaps this replicated the placement of the big toe when wearing thongs or sandals.

Dear God, said my mother to her little brood when the Japanese had departed, what a relief. What good friends these neighbours are. And they were. Indeed, as immigrants all, irrespective of origins, language differences, and diverse paths to God, all of us knew that we had to stand by one another. We were already contributing to a nation in the making. We would survive these harsh and insecure times and, later, get rid of the British. So spoke my elders. To traditional Asians, time is expandable, is it not? We would recover our independence, and our cultures would flourish unhindered by European bible-bashers, their military cohorts, colonial administrators, and exploitative commercial operators. The future must, as ever, be left to look after itself. There is, after all, cosmic justice infusing and overlaying the multiple and inter-connected channels of Destiny covering all the individuals of mankind. The need now for us was to survive, hopefully with assistance from the gods.

The latter days

My father got back his public service job eventually. That indicated that the Japanese had re-established the necessary modicum of government administrative services. The private sector had, of course, kick-started itself as soon as the Japanese had taken control. Trading in goods and services has a momentum of its own, driven by the ubiquitous human need to survive, and its ancillary, the drive to make a profit. As said by Benjamin Franklin, "No nation was ruined by trade." The basic staples of rice and vegetables are, of course, readily grown in the tropics. Protein food was, however, more scarce than usual. That is why, even in normal times, the people, irrespective of cuisine, were inclined to be lean.

For a little while, the military government enabled a supply of meat, through rationing. Queuing for ninety or more minutes on one day a month, enabled the purchase of a piece of meat the size of a man's palm. Inching my way to the head of the queue along a market roadside in the heat of the tropics was not something that I would ever forget. The availability of rationed meat did not last. Fish was more readily available in the markets, but at a horrific price. Profiteering is a very human attribute. Obviously, those in business, especially the middlemen, had no time for the teachings of any of the great, or even lesser, religions and faiths in the circumstances of shortage. The nature of mankind being what it is, I was not surprised to find, when I arrived in Australia a few years after the end of the war, that rationing in wartime (and for a little later) had led to the Australian people also being cheated in petty ways by their traders and retailers. The dislike by my clan of trade as an occupation (a view shared strongly by my Italian mother-in-law) might reflect similar experiences.

The Japanese in Occupied Malaya allowed primary schools to be re-opened, but high schools remained closed. Yet, the technical college in the capital, producing 'technical assistants' in the fields of engineering, was promptly re-opened. Graduates from the college were to contribute to building or maintaining necessary infrastructure. European colonial governments too had focused on infrastructure services being provided by the native peoples, with positions for managers, administrators and policy advisers being filled by expatriates of their own kind. Often, relatively unskilled white people had allegedly managed more highly skilled local people trained in the UK. The Japanese military took no different an approach.

Yet, at no time, and at all levels of intercourse, was there any evidence that the Japanese were racist. That is, there was none of that arrogance displayed by British colonials. The latter disparaged our cultures, including our religions, and our traditions. The sign "No Chinamen and dogs", prominently displayed at the entrance to the prestigious Selangor Club in Kuala Lumpur, the capital, said it all. In return, the men in my extended family referred to their British overlords as upstarts. They recognised in that intuitive manner of mature men that most of the white people they dealt with were acting way above their 'station.' Perhaps, as said by Voltaire, 'They are like their own beer: froth on top, dregs at the bottom, the middle excellent.'

The use of such phrases by my elders also indicated clearly that these 'natives' had a good command of the English language. It was also to be expected that any Asian trained in the UK (commonly as teachers, engineers, aircraft controllers, and similar infrastructure workers) would have learnt to relate speech accents to levels of education, and thus to social class – with its implications for social conduct. Being treated as inferior does not, of course, make one feel inferior or subservient. Indeed, the resentment engendered in the local people might have made us more perceptive of the weaknesses of our rulers.

The Japanese, in their day-to-day dealings with us, had to use sign language, or raise their voices to a shout, as if this improved our understanding of what seemed a harsh language. The Chinese amongst us, however, had a singular advantage. They could converse with the Japanese through their writing, as the Japanese used the same hieroglyphics.

With the stability of a regular income, a new life routine commenced. Although I have, like the proverbial cat, a tendency to observe and a need to know about all manner of things, and admit to a compulsive tendency to analyse everything I either observe or hear of, I was obviously too young to know how others, especially those without a regular income, fared. The basal position is that, even during normal times, poverty reigns everywhere. Vast differences in security and personal income reflected, as ever, the reality that most people scrambled to survive, and scratched a living with a heavy blanket of economic insecurity stifling them; the relatively secure or well-to-do were plain fortunate. Wartime worsened everyone's woes; yet, my family was relative secure. I did note that my father's wage was paid partly in cigarettes, and that it seemed to be expected that the fags would be sold on the black market. This he did each month. There were always ready buyers. Were they smokers or traders?

Whether or not there was a regular income, all of us dug up every bit of land around us, including a small playground in front of my home, and planted tapioca. The plant is fast-growing, producing an edible root. When the thick skin has been removed, one could even eat it raw – in small quantities of course. It is very starchy and filling. It was one of the normal staples of the poorer people, even when rice was cheap. That was because it can be grown so readily on the smallest plot of land. In normal times, the tapioca may not even be harvested, where it grew by the roadside and on other public land.

A couple of years into the Japanese occupation, I was so hungry that I dug up a piece of tapioca in a plot developed by me and my fellow students at the Technical College, peeled it, and began to eat it. Although the college seemed to be deserted, a Malay instructor caught me, gave me an almighty slap, and warned me not to steal again. He then left me to finish off the piece of tapioca. The instructor must have realised that the fifteen year old was starving. That was the end of the matter, much to my gratitude. No one else knew about my shameful experience. I would, in future, ignore the lesson from a Greek proverb that 'You cannot reason with a hungry belly, since it has no ears.' My wartime hunger did leave some interesting consequences. I have since been unable to throw away any food (unless it is rotten, of course). At age forty I realised that I was ingesting eighteen teaspoonsful of refined sugar daily. I cannot go to sleep on an empty stomach now, when then I did.

Since rice was scarce during wartime, tapioca was eaten as a staple. It was boiled in chunks, or grated and steamed, and eaten with vegetable gravy. When the tapioca was sliced thinly, dried, and then pounded into flour, it could be made into a sweet and eaten with a small amount of unrefined sticky, dark brown, palm sugar known as _gula melaka_. There was, of course, no refined sugar available. Another root product, also grown and eaten as a staple, was the sweet potato. It was prepared in the same way as tapioca. After the end of the war, throughout the rest of my life, I could not eat either root, no matter how wonderfully it was prepared.

It would seem that the Japanese and Korean foot soldiers might also have had a lean time gastronomically. I was told that they liked to add a lot of sugar to their rice and vegetables. Where did they get the sugar? Was this for energy, or a reflection of deprivation during their normal life back home? I know too that they used to sing when not on duty. Their songs sounded very sad! In fact, their national anthem, which we were required to sing at college, sounded like a dirge! Japanese officers may, however, have been better looked after. I have seen some of them traveling by rickshaw with women, some of whom were Japanese. My elders referred to the women as 'comfort' girls, some of whom the army had transported to Malaya. The others would have been recruited locally.

Six months after re-gaining employment, my father was transferred to a tiny village which straddled a coastal road, with a river working its way languidly to the sea through the village. Small subsistence rice farms occupied by Malays surrounded the village. My father ran the post office, with the family living behind this office. What was surprising was the evident need for a post office with telephone service attached in such an out-of-the-way place during the doldrums of a military occupation. Being transferred was good for the family. They could barter a few scarce pieces of used clothing for a bag of _padi_ (un-husked rice) from the ever-friendly Malay farmers.

The _padi_ was pounded by us in a cylindrical mortar of scooped our timber, about a foot wide and about two feet high in total, the receptacle being a foot in depth. The pestle was tall, about three feet in length, with a metal cap at its base. Using each hand in turn, the pestle would be lifted, and then guided to its task using mainly gravity. A rhythmic pattern of lifting, and dropping with a little push, enabled one to pound away for quite awhile. Bending one's back was carefully avoided. I became quite good at it. After de-husking, a square body-wide flat tray of woven cane was used to waft away the husk. By shaking the tray in a flapping motion (again I speak from experience), and aided by a little blowing, the debris would be discarded. The mortar and pestle were also used for pounding coffee beans, other dried vegetable beans, and anything else which was to be converted to flour. Prewar, we had servants or casual labour to do this work.

The Malays always kept their homes and their surrounds in pristine, yet attractive, condition. Like the Indians, they loved colour in their homes, as well in their clothing. They were so remarkably civilised in their tolerance of so many foreigners in their land. They were always friendly and helpful, whilst living the most simple of lives. They were devout Muslims. I find them a very likeable people. Their spoken language is so mellifluous, especially as uttered by little children.

From time to time, up the river sneaked the occasional fisherman, avoiding the authorized watchdogs who were to purchase their catch. They sold some of this catch to families in the village. That is, my family had more protein than would have been available to them in the capital. My mother kept a goat, ducks, fowls and geese (not all at the same time), which had to be locked securely at night. The family protein intake was thus improved.

What was so amazing to all and sundry was the sight of my mother sitting on a step with very young chicks struggling to jump up a number of steps to get onto her lap. Once they reached her lap, they would fall asleep. To this day, I carry the image of my youngest sister sitting on one of our mother's knees, with the other knee taken up by our cousin of the same age who had recently lost her mother. The little feathered chicks took centre stage in the sari-cradled lap. That was one of life's heart-warming mysteries.

Another memory retained by me was of the most beautiful rooster one could ever meet. Its feathers had almost all of the colours of the rainbow. It was gorgeous, and the way it strutted suggested that it knew it. It had been allowed to live only because of its beauty, whereas any bird deemed not necessary for breeding was eaten. One day, said rooster decided to cross the road. This is not a story for those little children, especially my little granddaughter Zoe, who like jokes as to why the chicken crossed the road. As 'Gorgeous' crossed the road, it was killed by the only vehicle seen on the road for days; the rooster had never seen a car. Indeed, the road was often used by the rice farmers to dry the small fish they had caught or bought illegally. The fish were never stolen. My family had chicken curry the night 'Gorgeous' departed. Indeed, any member of the feathered family which seemed to be sick was promptly and sensibly curried.

There was, naturally, no medication of any kind available. When the eldest of my sisters developed a huge boil on the back of her neck, a close family friend, a pharmacy assistant, accompanied by a scalpel he had borrowed, was brought in from the capital to help. He cut into the boil, with no anaesthetic, antiseptic, cotton wool, or other dressing available. The poor girl, who at the age of twelve, had had to learn to cook and look after her younger sisters whenever our mother was unwell, screamed in terrible pain whilst the pus was squeezed out and the wound covered with a clean cloth. I am not sure how she survived. Perhaps she was destined to survive in order to carry out her role in mature age. This was to hold together, and with style, the extended family, in the manner of a made-to-measure matriarch, such was her competence in that role.

When my family was transferred to the country-side, I was left in the capital. I was fourteen. That was the first of my wheels-falling-off experiences. This is not lightly said. When I had a young family, I did have the rear right-hand wheel of my car roll past the car – an interesting experience. My very ambitious mother (and compliant father) had arranged for me to board with a distant relative and two other men (and a Chinese cook/ housekeeper who had nowhere to go). Before I could move in, I had to obtain selection to the Technical College. How was a fourteen-year old boy, who had only completed primary school, to achieve that? To my mother, it was all so simple. Her son had topped his class, often by a great margin of marks, every term (bar one), every year. Proof was evident in the annual reward by Ratna Uncle of a soccer ball.

That my mother was inordinately ambitious for me had been demonstrated a few years back, when she had taken my father on a long walk one evening to the home of my primary school principal. There, she had asked for a double promotion for that genius she had produced. She was to be the agent of my downfall within a decade. But, where had she learnt about 'double promotions'? The principal naturally refused, explaining why. My mother, in wartime, now arranged for a brilliant young relative, remarkably knowledgeable in maths and the physical sciences, to coach me. In the two months available, I was to be made ready for selection to the College. (Who said that Asian women were subservient?)

In that short period, I had to memorise all manner of equations and other relationships in these subjects. Without understanding the true significance of much of what was packaged into my memory bank, I passed the oral examination for entry to the college. I was the youngest student in the college. The others were about three years older, and obviously more mature. They labeled me 'Bochan', meaning baby in Japanese, and tolerated my presence; but they had no basis for any conversation with me. I was just a 'brilliant' but naive kid. As said by Charles Lamb (in the nineteenth century), "Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates." I had no mates. I realized some years later that I had learnt very little through my studies. I simply remembered everything I read or had been told. I had no real knowledge, which involves understanding.

So, the 'kid' grew up in semi-isolation, with neither family nor friends. It was a lonely life. Being effectively alone amidst company was a strange feeling. There was no scope for any meaningful conversation with my guardian or the other men. I spoke when I was spoken to. The Chinese cook had a similar life of isolation, I noticed. To know that no company is better than bad company was no solace. I was, however, exceedingly fortunate in coming across an extensive private library in the possession of a family of school teachers trained in the UK. The core of the collection included many of the English classics (Austen, Dickens, Shakespeare and others), lightened by a few books on adventure and discoveries in 'darkest Africa' and other similar areas (eg. Alaska), books on the Wild West of the USA, and a couple I remember with gratitude, on matters sexual (eg. Marie Stopes).

Did not this isolation affect me, as a young nephew was later affected, by being sent away also at fourteen? Did not boys dispatched to boarding schools in Western nations develop certain undesirable personality traits? Or to display the effects of a hidden or unsighted trauma? I have often wondered why some parents produce children, when the latter are thrown out of the nest long before they are ready to fly or to stand on their own feet. When I was struggling to establish myself in Australia, a very distant relative asked me to take over his young son and educate him in Australia. Did he consider the immigration issue, and my financial position? He had never been in touch with me before! When I explained that I was not in a position to help him with his responsibilities, I heard no more!

From my extensive wartime reading, I garnered a most valuable knowledge and understanding of the beauty, subtlety and complexity of the English language, as well as its usage, but without the benefit of a dictionary. I could not find one. By the end of the war, I could, to my surprise, write either in a most concise and clear fashion, or in a complex (often archaic) manner. How did I manage to do that? Further, because of my photographic memory, for the rest of my life, I could spell correctly every word that I had in my memory bank.

During my career in Australia where I subsequently settled, I found that I could guide the younger generations of Anglo-Aussies in such esoteric matters as punctuation. I would also win a few dollars from those of my colleagues who challenged my spelling. Best of all, just for the hell of it, I once coined a word, and brazenly slipped it past a sloppy senior public servant in the Treasury, as well as an insufferably pompous chairman of an official advisory board, and the Minister of the day! That was fun. They may have accepted that, whilst I am not infallible (like the pontifical gentleman on the Mediterranean), I seemed to be rarely wrong.

To maintain contact with my family, I would, once a month, travel by bus part of the way, and then hop on to my three-quarter sized bicycle. This would take up half a day. The buses had been converted by enterprising Chinese to run on wood or coal. The burner was at the back of the bus, near the ladder leading to the roof rack. Cycling from home to the bus station, I would then try to find a bus going in the right direction. Once, I took a wrong bus and finished up where I did not want to be, and without the necessary fare to get home. With the help of my father's colleague, the post master of that village, I finally got home. My normal travel involved catching the correct bus going west, with my cycle tied on top of the bus. On arrival at our destination, I had to cross most carefully a narrow rickety bridge across a wide and normally raging river.

The centre of the bridge was constructed of timber slats, as the bridge had been blown up by the retreating British troops. The timber pieces were inevitably slippery, and sloped towards the water. Many of the slats were often lapped by the water rushing past full of debris. Whilst crossing the river was obviously hazardous, what was I to do? I would hang onto the bike with one hand, and onto the waist-high guide wire with the other, as I sought a stable footing, slat by slat. Looking into the water was not a good idea.

Once on the other side, I would cycle north for an hour along a normally empty road in the heat and humidity of the midday tropical sun. It would have been scorching except for the protection by the rubber trees which leaned over the narrow road. Coming from a hardy stock, my parents seemed to accept (as I did) that such travel was not worthy of comment. On my return, my guardian was equally laconic about any difficulties I might have had on my journey. So, was I being stoic in their apparent indifference? Or, were we simply pragmatic Hindus, in accepting during difficult times that what must be will be? Does not one's karma, like a shadow, follow one everywhere?

The Final Days

In the last year of the war – not that anyone, other than those who took their lives in their hands by listening to short-wave radio, was aware of that – the relative stability of life for my family in their village was shattered. Every household received a demand for a donation of a specified amount, by a specified date, to the People's Anti-Japanese Army. The donation required was substantial. Who were these people?

Gossip had established in the capital that communist Chinese had overcome the Kuo-Min-Tang (or Chiang Kai Shek's) anti-Japanese underground. Their underlying motive was the takeover of Malaya once the Japanese had been driven away. Needing all the help they could get, the Allied forces based in India had apparently supplied arms to all insurgents. I had heard that some of the arms-drops were to a place just out of the capital and could be sighted on their way down; and that Japanese troops would move into the jungle in search of these arms and, reportedly, never return. On one rare occasion, when I had accompanied a family friend to a village near the arms-drops, I had been advised not to look at anyone, or to speak, whilst my friend carried out his transaction (whatever that was). It was a very strange experience indeed. It was as if we were in enemy territory. I was very apprehensive, unlike a month-old pup which fears not a tiger.

So, it was in my family's village. The people did necessary shopping, neither looking at nor talking to anyone on the way. The streets and shops were quite empty. And silent! With eyes kept down, ears and mouths closed, the people lived in fear. The fear was palpable. No one knew who represented that key link with the extortionists – for that is all these thugs were. Proof of that came swiftly. A distant relative (the brother of my guardian), who lived near by, ran a cartage business based on a bullock cart with two bullocks. He had to sell his cart and bullocks to pay his levy, which took up only half of his sale receipt. A few weeks later, his naked body was found by the roadside, with his throat cut. The rest of his money disappeared. A short distance away, the body of a young schoolteacher, who had been heard to complain about the levy, was also found by the roadside on the same morning. He too had his throat cut and his body was unclothed.

This experience, apart from Hinduism, turned me into a staunch anti-communist for life. My hackles would rise whenever I read or heard about any group whose name began with "The People's... " Whilst communitarianism is consistent with my understanding of Hinduism, communism is not. It was already bad enough for us to be subjugated sequentially by European colonials and the Japanese military. The enemy of our enemy was not our friend.

Fortunately for my family, my mother had an expensive sari hidden away. I took it to the capital and, with the help of a member of the _chettiar_ class (Indian money lenders), sold it for more than the levy. On the way out of the coffee shop where the transaction had been carried out, I found that the local military police office was on the floor above. Wasn't the deal legal? I did not know. The buyer was exchanging money which would be worthless at the end of the war for a tradeable commodity. On my way home, on the packed bus, a clever pickpocket removed the money that was exactly surplus to the levy payment. Was this some sort of a cosmic joke? My father said nothing about the mishap, my great folly. The levy was paid, and I learnt a very painful lesson of many parts. I would have preferred to be berated for my carelessness.

My problem was – where was I to hide a thick wad of folded money? The clever thief, who must taken a lot of time to slide out two packets from my pocket, had extracted money on one effort, and a folded sheet of paper with my calculations on the other. If he had taken out any more money, my family would have been in trouble with the extortionists. I was very conscious of that. I had to live with that knowledge for many a year.

The potential for another sharp lesson occurred when one of the men in my guardian's home and I were listening to the short-wave radio one afternoon. It was the only time, ever, that we had done that. We were normally very sensible people. In the middle of a BBC news program, the face of a Japanese soldier appeared at the main window! What a shock that was. By the time the soldier got to the front door, the radio had been turned off. We had never seen a Japanese on our street for months. Fortunately for us, the soldier was lost, and was happy to be pointed the right way back to base. In any event, he was unarmed, and had merely gone on a stroll. Our fear of being caught listening to the BBC was based on knowledge on what had happened to some of those who had been found passing short-wave messages to the anti-Japanese movement. One of these men had reportedly been strung up by his thumbs, another by his ankles.

The anti-Japanese forces also displayed a flair for payback killing. In the interregnum between Japan's surrender and the arrival of the British, there were reports of the disappearance of certain Japanese and their local collaborators. There was some evidence of this in the bodies floating down rivers. In the midst of all the burials and cremations, there were, strangely, also marriages. In the midst of so much uncertainty, were families seeking to perpetuate their blood-lines? I wondered too how some people were able to afford such luxuries.

To raise some money, I then tried to be a player in the black market, in the manner of some of my fellow students. They seemed to be middlemen dealing with other middlemen, seeking much needed goods such as bike or other equipment parts. I was sprung by my guardian on my sole effort, by a fool of a fellow student passing a message to me through said guardian! That was the end of that effort at commerce by a most naïve teenager.

The trouble was that this teenager was forever hungry. He was getting taller and leaner, with no protein, calcium or fat in his diet. It was little wonder that by my mid thirties, my spine showed so much wear. It would seem that my backbone had not been firmed properly because of the substantial lack of suitable sustenance during my teenage years. Yet, I denied myself some extra protein on one occasion. During one of my visits to my family, when both mother and senior sister were unwell, and waiting, in the absence of any medication, for nature to allow recovery, I took over the kitchen. On opening a large tin of stored dried fish, I found an equivalent quantity of well-fed maggots. Each was as big as the dried fish. I emptied the tin onto a hotplate, pushed the dying maggots into the fire and, having heat-cleansed the fish, cooked it into a curry. No one in the family knew about the maggots. No one suffered from food poisoning.

When, in Australia, I discovered that the Aborigines swallowed maggots alive, I wondered why, in spite of my on-going hunger, I had thrown away the maggots I found. Were Hindu cultural emphasis on cleanliness, and the association of maggots with contamination and therefore filth, responsible for my rejection of an unexpected food supply? I believe so.

Then, a major tragedy struck. Kuna Uncle's wife died during surgery, leaving five children under eight. My mother promptly took off to look after her brother and his children, although he had a male Indian cook (who, like my guardian's Chinese cook had nowhere to go). After two months, my father ordered his wife back, to be replaced by his sixteen year old son. Whose brilliant idea was that, I wondered. My only experience at looking after children was rocking my younger sisters to sleep, and playing with them. Arriving at my uncle's home, I found my eighteen-month old boy-cousin suffering from diarrhoea, the three-year old boy withdrawn but ravenous, the five-year old girl sweet and placid, her six and a half year-old brother hiding behind a bedroom door quietly weeping almost all day, the eldest, at eight, somewhat recalcitrant but calm, and the cook in bed, very ill. My uncle went to work each day. Where were the female members of the tribal community, I wondered. Did anyone care? Obviously not!

Since babies in the tropics do not wear nappies, there was a continuous cleansing of floors and furniture until my young cousin recovered. The dear little fellow went around clutching an item of his mother's clothing, which he would not let go even in his sleep. Otherwise, he was no trouble, like his three and five year-old siblings. Little could be done with the eldest two boys, although I tried and tried. In the meantime, everyone had to be fed thrice a day. How, I wondered, since the only cooking I had ever done was with the maggot-contaminated fish. How did my parents reach the conclusion that I could manage to look after and feed my cousins, uncle and the sick cook?

With advice from the bed-bound cook, who did not recover during the two months I was being broken in as cook, laundryman, child-carer and housekeeper, I managed to carry out all these duties, presumably to acceptable standards. I learnt to prepare Indian-style breakfasts and other meals, thus preparing my way mentally for a future life of comparable culinary competence in Australia. For a sixteen year-old, it surely was a fantastic achievement; but no one said anything. Later in life, whenever I achieve something equally unexpected, I tend to say 'I am not just a pretty face, you know!' The looks on my audience is reward enough.

To make matters worse, a middle-aged couple I had never heard of came to stay for a few days, in order to attend a wedding. They treated me as a servant, and offered no help whatsoever. I was glad to see the back of them, whilst wondering about the morality of tribal compatriots who took everything and acknowledged nothing. My connection with the imperatives of tribalism was already beginning to be frayed. It would continue to be eroded by the behaviour of fellow 'countrymen' in a Western environment over the years.

After two months, it was agreed that my five-year old girl cousin and the boy-baby would live with my family. I would have a little brother at last, I hoped. It was an informal adoption, the traditional way in our culture. The remaining three would stay with their father and the cook. The baby brought with him a dark green sari (all six yards of it), and would never let it go. I have seen him feel for it in sleep. And he would drag it behind him as he walked, until both children returned to their father. Before their return, which was instigated by a trouble-making close relative, these two delightful children brought a lot of joy to my family. My youngest sister had a playmate of her own age, and I enjoyed carrying the little boy around on my bike. Decades later, it was warming for me to hear him speak with fond memories about our time together. Their premature departure was triggered by the trouble-maker informing the father of the children that they were addressing my father as Papa, as we did! We had a mongrel in the clan!

I returned to the capital, for some reason travelling (illegally) on top of road metal in an open railway truck. In tropical heat, that was another memorable experience. I remember that I wore a straw hat. What does a teenager think about such extra-ordinary events? Apparently nothing of significance, for I remember no strong feeling associated with what happened. Indeed, throughout my life, whatever happens, I do tend to say "What is, is!" Sometimes, it did take a little while to be so accepting.

Back in the capital, another experience or two awaited. In the normality of events, whenever the Japanese needed a work gang to repair a road or suchlike, they would gather all the able-bodied men and youths at a road block and take them away. By carrying a book with me and my identification as a student, I had always been exempted from such hard labour. My weedy appearance might also have helped. However, now the college administration had agreed that all the students would become a work gang, in order to repair the local airfield. We worked in teams of three on a couple of afternoons per week. One student dug out an embankment and the other two carried the soil in a wicker basket quite a distance, in order to fill the holes on the runway caused by their own bombing a few years back. Neither water nor rest was available in that terrible afternoon heat. Fortunately for us, the war soon ended, and our unwilling contribution to the intended defence of Malaya by the Japanese military was needed no longer. It was a good lesson for those who would not be using their bodies to earn a living, to appreciate the hardships of the less skilled.

Before Japan surrendered, Allied planes use to appear at a great height, and we students would saunter at leisure into the air raid shelters we had prepared when the alarm was sounded. On the first occasion that a plane flew low over us, we spontaneously jumped out of our shelters, held up our arms, and cheered. This performance was seen by the military police at their headquarters across the street a couple of blocks away. The next day, the college principal warned us that, although he held the second highest rank in the state, he could not protect us from severe punishment by the _Kempeitai_ , the military police, were we to misbehave again. He said that he personally understood our feeling, and asked that we respect his position. He was first and foremost an educator, a former school principal.

I remember vividly how he would poke his swagger stick into my midriff whenever I asked to be excused from the morning's calisthenics because of a pain in my stomach. Looking back, I wonder now how we understood his daily speeches. Although I do not remember any Japanese words now, I must have learned enough to cope with his instructions. Fortunately, our lecturers were Asian, and their lectures were in English. Most importantly, the protection our principal afforded us from the _Kempeitei_ showed that he was a good man.

Not all the planes flying out of India flew low enough to spy out the land and enthuse the locals. Other planes, said to be piloted by Americans, flew very high, whilst seeking to bomb important targets such as the capital's railway station. Few of the bombs caused the damage they were supposed to achieve; instead, in my town, they destroyed homes, shops, and public buildings of no relevance to the war effort. I was amused to hear one of my fellow students tell the story that, whatever building he ran into for protection during one air raid, it was bombed. Finally, he felt that he should try the railway station itself, for that was not hit. It was obviously the intended target.

Many years later in Australia, I read that American pilots in each of the recent spheres of war involving the USA (I wondered if there were any that did not) had been accused of being too frightened to fly low enough to see their targets clearly, even killing Allied troops by mistake. In the decades following my experience, 'collateral damage', even by 'friendly fire', did become commonplace, and apparently unexceptionable. Should such unintended or casual butchery be more acceptable in human terms, than intended brutality, even in war?

Within twenty four hours of Japan's surrender, everyone somehow seemed to know. Immediately, there were pillages in public places. For example, as I watched, sacks of rice were stolen from a stationery railway carriage in broad daylight. There were neither police nor Japanese soldiers to interfere with this looting. I did not dare join them. The few Japanese military in public places were seen to smile, whilst they maintained effective law and order. Remarkable! Some of the Chinese who expected to take over the country were known to snarl when the first Indian troops arrived armed with only shovels. I was there to observe this strange scene. Those Chinese who were then silly enough to attack the Indian troops found their homes and shops destroyed at night. So I heard.

Why the shovels? There must have been some significance in that. Why Indian troops? That was the way of the European coloniser, to use 'natives' to quell other natives in the greater glory of Empire. The people of India who had demonstrated for independence from the British would know all about this practice. The Maoris of New Zealand hate the Gurkhas for doing Britain's dirty work in subduing them. However, the Kaiser of India was to disappear soon, and native peoples everywhere would be free to govern themselves. That was what my people were waiting for. That many pompous colonial rulers would return to a more simple (and possibly frugal) life was of no concern to us. A few ostriches would also be allowed to retain their plumage.

In this context, I recall watching a public assembly on the field outside my home. It was being addressed by the well-known Subhas Chandra Bose, who had been agitating, with the support of the Japanese government, for a free India. He had called for Britain's Indian troops to defect. In occupied Malaya, he was seeking moral and financial support. Whilst he did not seem to me to be persuasive, he certainly received a good hearing. The mood for freedom was percolating the people. It would pervade the postwar policy arena.

As said by my father, who extolled the virtue of freedom, no one has the right to enter another man's home, and seek to control his lifestyle and family, and to denigrate his cultural values. I have remained anti-colonial and anti-racist all my life, without apology to the role of Destiny in bringing onto our shoulders racist Europeans. My role during most of my adult life has been to demonstrate to European society that we Asians have a proud history, with most durable cultures; and that we are second to none.

Whilst the 'White man's burden' had served the European buccaneers well, partly at the expense of the poor taxpayers back in the colonisers' home, God-fearing coloured peoples who had previously governed themselves freely had been oppressed and exploited for far too long. The 'benevolent rule' of colonial subjects, the boast of racists such as Winston Churchill, was simple spin-doctoring!

A retrospect

Certain aspects of human behaviour during this wartime period made the greatest impact on me. The interruption to my studies and the associated delay in completing school; the isolation from family and the related absence of on-going guidance for living during those sensitive teenage years; the never-ending rumbling in my stomach; and the uncertainties of life under a military occupation, whilst significant in the short term, were overcast by observing the plight of those literally starving on the streets; and the brutality of the military police.

Day by day, I saw increasing numbers of pitifully thin people, virtual skeletal cadavers, lying on footpaths near the shops, with a few rags on them and some under them. The passers-by had nothing to give these poor people; perhaps the shopkeepers made a small contribution of food. The pathos of the starving was heightened by the sight of the odd male masturbating – quite openly! How strong is the sex drive, I marveled in my youth. Little wonder, I thought, that the poor in underdeveloped countries multiplied faster than the better fed. Had nature gone mad, I wondered. Decades later, after many years of reading widely, I reached the sad conclusion that all the experts in economics, politics and other social sciences had no substantive operational and achievable solution to the problem of prolonged poverty, even in those countries recording strong economic growth or deemed to be developed first-world nations. There had to be something wrong with the collective human soul.

Thus, from the time I finally obtained secure employment, a small fraction of my fortnightly income was directed straight into an overseas aid organization related to Oxfam, the reputable British foreign aid organization. We did not set out to feed the impoverished. Instead, we sought to provide individuals and small groups with equipment or facilities to enable them to become more productive. – from a water tap, to sewing machines, etc. Administrative costs were minimal – a rare achievement.

The brutal behaviour of the military police, whilst not visible until after the event, was certainly audible. Day by day, people passing their headquarters could hear the cries of those being beaten or given the water treatment. The latter involved forcing water into the gut, and then stomping on it – so we were told. From time to time, bodies were deposited by wheelbarrow onto the road to be collected. The sight of the bodies, the sounds of beating, the pitiful cries, and the stories about the water treatment should have made most people behave correctly. Why the brutal treatment? For anti-Japanese conduct.

When the British returned, the _Kempeitai_ were locked up in their own cells. Each morning, the British sergeant in charge of these prisoners would (according to gossip) enter the cell of the chief of the _Kempeitai_ , and give him a work-over with his rubber truncheon. This was pleasing news to us, disregarding the teachings of our respective faiths. These ask us to leave it to the Cosmos to punish the guilty. Instant punishment seemed quite fair to us.

I hated the Japanese, although I had not suffered directly under them. My dislike of these people lasted well into the early 1970s. Then, I had to deal with certain Japanese investors in Australia, in my role as an Australian public servant. A legally clever but immoral acquisition of an Australian enterprise by a well-known Japanese conglomerate brought out my prejudice. That had to go. I was so successful in unloading this prejudice that, following my involvement, lasting more than two years, in a major planned investment by a prominent Japanese, a Japanese diplomat was known to describe me as 'hard but fair'! This Japanese investor and I finished up respecting each other. And Japan, which had failed to conquer Australia, continued to acquire large chunks of it and its enterprises. Thus, war could become obsolete were it not needed to support profitable armament industries.

However, although I matured in security in a civilized developed nation, I was continually made aware of the acquisitive venality of some in the West. In the mode of the former Christian commercial coloniser, these need to control the lands and other resources of fellow human beings, behaving casuistically or with casual brutality in the process. And I came to despise governments (including my own) for instigating, or encouraging, or colluding in or facilitating such corrupt practices. The euphemism of 'imposing democracy', when the objective is to replace collective rights with theoretical individual rights; that of 'globalization', whose objective is control of resources everywhere; that of 'introducing human rights', with the objective of destroying tribal allegiances; are these not the weapons of the neo-colonial?

How does one respect those who talk of Christian fellowship, with their tongues in both cheeks, even as they cause great societal damage wherever resource need or power beckons? It would seem logical for my adopted home to become part of the USA, since our elected leaders remain fearful of our coloured neighbours. This fear remains even after more than two centuries of being amongst them. Residual colonial superiority, and fear of foreigners – what a conundrum!

Foreign control over others does not now involve the kind of upheaval experienced by my people under the Japanese!

### Chapter 2

BACK IN TIME – LIFE IN COLONIAL MALAYA

"What is childhood but a series of happy delusions"

\- Sydney Smith 1771-1845

Origins

My family's life in Malaya commenced with the entry of my maternal grandfather seeking employment. He migrated from the harsh north of the British colony of Ceylon to Malaya, a British protectorate. The British loved to play with such quasi-legal distinctions, whilst they expanded their spheres of influence in competition with fellow- Christian colonising nations. Dominating trade routes, acquiring control of resources, and creating export markets for their home industries were the main motives. Saving heathen souls to Christ enabled greater control of subject peoples. As Desmond Tutu said, "When the missionaries first came to Africa, they had the Bible and we had the land. They said, 'Let us pray', and when we opened our eyes, we had the Bible and they had the land."

By birth in a British colony, my grandfather was a British Subject (as were all Australians until 1948). Malaya was then a conglomerate, comprising three straits settlements (controlled directly by the British), four Federated Malay States and five Un-federated Malay States (all nine with British Residents or Advisers 'guiding' Malay sultans). The British, unlike the Dutch and the French, who too had possessions in south and south-east Asia, generally preferred direct control. Thus the sultans were effectively ceremonial rulers. They were kept happy in their exalted but empty positions by knighthoods and such like, including sparkling ceremonial occasions. Naturally, the white advisers too could dress themselves splendiferously, with plumes and suchlike attached to suitable places; and to preen and posture to the satisfaction of the more common folk back home. It was all very grand. Was it not the thieves and traders who had the largest mansions all over the world, reminded my elders.

As it is not uncommon for individuals to cross borders or rivers and seas in order to trade, or to till fresh soil, or to seek work, or to proselytise or study some new religion or spiritual teaching, or to learn new skills, or to rob and dominate, my parents were uncertain how long our ancestors had occupied our traditional land. After all, only a narrow strait separates Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) from India. Way back in history, it was possibly just a river; many a port and coastal township on the shores of the Indian sub-continent were inundated by a rising sea over the centuries. It would seem that our people may be able to claim more than a thousand years of an unbroken occupation of the north and north-east of Ceylon. According to a Ceylonese Malayan historian, the foundation people were a Tamil-speaking Hindu tribe originating in the Deccan in central India and subsequently emigrating from south-east India.

Tamil is one of the four major Dravidian languages (all in south India), the minor ones being found in south-western Pakistan, eastern Iran, and central India, with small pockets elsewhere. With the sequential arrival of the Indo-European language speakers from lands now called Iran and Afghanistan, and the Muslim Mughals from central Asia, it is possible that the Dravidian speakers had moved south from the vicinity of the Himalayas, taking the more traditional versions of Hinduism with them. Linguistically, the Dravidian languages are totally unrelated to the Indo-European languages. How did they arise? Could the Dravidian speakers have been the original occupants of the sub-continent? The Hinduism practiced in the south of India is said to be the purer form of the religion.

I have read that much of history, especially ancient history, was re-written in recent centuries to prove the innate superiority of European man. This was intended to deny that this superior fellow could possibly have learnt anything from the 'black' peoples of Egypt, Mesopotamia, and lands further east, although the latter were known to have been highly civilized long before the European.

I have therefore wondered whether the non-Dravidian languages of India were linked to the languages of Europe by European scholars in the nineteenth century only because the near-white Aryan is alleged by them to have conquered the coloured tribes of the Indian sub-continent. The implication intended to be drawn from that alleged conquest is that white (or whitish) people are always superior to the coloured ones. Although I was advised by a clairvoyant that I was a white man in a previous life, I cannot accept that some tribes are superior because of their skin colour, religion, or temporary technological skills. During my formative years, I was clearly attuned to the equality of human beings through the family's religious beliefs. The admixture of tribes with a variety of religious beliefs and cultural practices in prewar Malaya, co-existing peacefully, enhanced this lesson.

Contrary to the claims of the eighteenth and nineteenth century European scholars, some Indian scholars claim that the Aryan (or outsider) had simply wandered (as was a common occurrence in the history of mankind) across from Persia and Afghanistan through the centuries. They presumably brought with them their own cultures, including different languages or dialects. Other scholars say that the Aryan had always been there in the lands of the north of the sub-continent. It is little wonder that the Indians, like the African-Americans and other formerly colonised peoples everywhere, now want to research their own histories.

Traditionally, the victor will write history as he chooses to see it. But such initial perspectives are not necessarily capable of withstanding later, more clear-sighted, and objective views. As for the people of the city states of Greece, the ancestral cultural home preferred by the European colonial and his scholarly acolyte, a prominent Western scholar claims that the Greeks had actually been educated by the ancient Egyptians, and subsequently seeded philosophically by peoples from western Asia (Mesopotamia?) and further east (India?). Did not Pythagoras study for eight years in Egypt? What would that imply? Indeed, were the city states of what is now known as Greece founded by the Egyptians?

Interestingly, whereas Dravidian speakers might have made way for Indo-European speakers in north India, in Ceylon's north, it may have been the reverse. Whilst the Singhalese are said to have arrived in Ceylon from another part of India about 500 BC, it was only in about 300 BC that Buddhism was introduced to them. Presumably, they too had been Hindus when they migrated to Ceylon. They surely could not have been godless.

Initially, the Tamils of Ceylon, who seem to have taken readily to the English language, went to Malaya simply to better themselves, intending to return home in time. Indeed, some did, when they felt that they had achieved enough. Of course, so-called guest-workers are found all over the world. These are the people who have no desire to move away permanently from their homelands. As I discovered in Australia, many Mediterranean immigrants and, latterly, many business Chinese went back home after achieving permanent residence or citizenship and, in some cases, welfare payments or compensation for accidents – because they preferred the lifestyle among their own people. However, in postwar independent Sri Lanka, the Tamils found themselves as unequal citizens in a Buddhist nation, with Singhala as the national language. The diaspora of Tamils was now to be on-going, whilst a fight for autonomy in their own lands was undertaken by those who cannot get away, or who want to stay.

A tragic consequence of European colonial rule is that peoples (generally tribes) who have previously ruled themselves had been forcibly amalgamated under national borders drawn up arbitrarily. The inclusion of Muslim Malay areas in the south of Buddhist Thailand is an example. One cannot expect peoples in comparable situations, whether in Africa or Asia, to accept a minority status. These foreigner-set borders reflected the fierce competition between the colonial 'powers' for the resources of other people. Thus, the Hindu Tamils of Ceylon, having been subsumed under British rule, were then left to be subjugated by chauvinist Buddhist Singhalese. Power through religion can, as elsewhere in the world, over-ride the teaching of that religion, which is, generally, to love fellow man. Hence the on-going bitter battle for political autonomy in the north and part of east Sri Lanka by the Tamils, comparable to the claims of the Basques of Europe, the Kurds of the Middle East, the Muslim Moros of southern Philippines, and the Muslim peoples of south Thailand for self-rule or substantial autonomy.

I was not able to find out much about my maternal grandfather's background. This was because, in an authoritarian family structure, and survival in a foreign land requiring hard work and, for the next generation, successful study, my pursuit of historical personal details was seen to be somehow inappropriate. Why, I wondered. In any event, few children or young adults seem to share my need to know about ancestral origins, tribal history, or details about the lives and relationships of parents and grandparents. I surmise that my antecedents had farmed their lands in a subsistence economy, in much the same way as did the Malays in the countryside in Malaya.

Yet, many adults surrounded by people of different ethnic or cultural backgrounds, as in Australia, are quite quick to assert their ancestry. They seem to say, 'We are different'. Why? Is it pride? It is as if they need to stress any differences that might be found. Or is it an assumed superiority? For example, many newly-arrived Muslim peoples in modern Australia are emphatically stressing their religio-cultural difference from all other Australians. The latter, however, include immigrants from all over the world, whose descendants cannot be identified as ethnically or tribally different from one another, or from the Anglo-Aussies, either through their clothing or behaviour. That is, they have integrated into one Australian people.

Among the Anglo-Aussies, however, I was amazed to find so many who proudly claimed to be Irish, even after quite a few generations of residence away from their ancestral homeland, with much inter-marriage with non-Irish. Putting aside the difference in religion implicated in this identification, I have yet to find any self-proclaimed Irishman who is prepared to swear on his Good Book that every man who carries his family name had married a woman whose ancestry was untarnished Irish. I offered the challenge that it was highly probable that many an Irishman had seduced and seeded a Protestant girl, had her converted to Roman Catholicism after the required marriage, and produced Catholic children bearing the father's Irish clan name. None of my interlocutors was willing to deny that probability. That some of the Irish might have Spanish ancestors and, through that, some north African genes is rarely mentioned. Being Catholic Irish did enhance career prospects in the public services of Australia in the latter half of the twentieth century.

What information I was able to glean about my ancestors was limited. Through the records established by Dutch colonisers in Ceylon, a close relative of mine traced an unbroken tribal gene path through fourteen generations. Differences in skin colour and certain facial features do, however, suggest some genetic input from northern India. However, that input may have occurred long before the arrival of the tribe in Ceylon. Tribal admixtures were surely not unusual, whether on the Indian sub-continent or China or Europe.

The terrain of the tribal homeland in Jaffna is, I was told, dry, dusty and harsh, thereby ensuring that those who survived are hardy, self-sufficient and proud (somewhat like the Scots, I was also told). In this context, I recall an elderly visitor, a distant relative, to my home in Malaya from Jaffna. Over eighty tears of age, he used to sit outside the house in the shade, smoking a cheroot. He would roll each from tobacco he had grown and cured, and which he carried in a little pouch. In Jaffna, isolated by their religion and cultural practices, the Tamils lived in villages (which I was told were comparable to the smaller suburbs of modern cities) which were then defined by the crops grown (eg tobacco) or other livelihood (eg. fishing).

The people tended to be identified initially by their village, and then by the name of their father - as surnames or clan names were not part of our culture. They also tended to marry distant cousins in order seemingly to keep their lands within the clan. More importantly, this practice also avoided marriage into any family with a record of criminality, mental disturbance or physical infirmity. Tribal allegiance and cultural conformity were enhanced through an amorphous dispersed leadership based on respect for knowledge and honorable conduct. This seems to me to be congruent with the values and practices of similarly structured communities in many parts of the world in an earlier era.

I was always amazed, when meeting a Ceylon Tamil in Australia in earlier times, that I would be identified as a fellow Tamil on sight (although many north Indians have indicated that they thought that I was one of them). I would then be asked the village in Jaffna my people came from, and then my father's name. There would follow a serious attempt by him to identify my relatives and any other linkages between us, as if we were all somehow a single closely-bonded people. That is probably what we had been once. However, I found this approach disconcerting. I had grown up a Malayan, with no connections with Jaffna or any other part of Ceylon. My multi-ethnic friends and I were building a new multicultural nation, with little interest in distant peoples. (The older Chinese, however, sought to die in China.) Some members of my parents' generation did visit relatives back in Ceylon. However, disputes often seemed to arise about dowry property left behind.

My sparse knowledge of the life of my ancestors reflected, in part, the usual physical and ideational separation of emigrants from those left behind. In part, it reflected the comfort of the cocoon of an almost instant extended family in our new homeland, achieved by 'chain' migration. It also reflected the reality that a boy whose life had been disrupted by war was denied the necessary acculturation by the wider tribal community about matters of historical and cultural significance. The ground was thus laid for my easy adaptation to Western mores, and my integration into my new nation, when my destiny took me to Australia. This integration occurred in spite of the latter nation's unwarranted long-standing fear of foreigners, juxtaposed with an opportunistic borrowing of the cloak of colonial arrogance, with its assertion of racial and cultural superiority based on skin colour and religion. Perhaps I should have some regard for the cynicism of R.L.Stevenson who said: "Each has his own tree of ancestors, but at the top of all sits Probably Arboreal."

Even then I used to smile at the silly posturing by palefaces (a word I had acquired from books about cowboys and 'Red Indians') when (as I had been told by my worldly-wise elders) that the European man's power had arisen only from the ruthless use of his gun – and that was only a few centuries before. By pure chance, I had been reading, at the beginning of the war by Japan, Jawaharlal Nehru's book 'Glimpses of World History'. I used to read a chapter a night to my parents and sisters. This book is a collection of letters written in jail in India to his daughter Indira, but never posted. The British colonial government had locked up this Kashmiri Indian, and other potential leaders of an independent India, to ensure their continued raping of their prized jewel in the English crown. Oh, what pretensions, said my elders, as we all busily adapted to the benefits of westernisation introduced to us by the 'upstarts'.

My reading of Nehru (who later became the first prime minister of independent India) led me to believe that history should be interpreted as a series of rolling three-hundred year to six-hundred year periods. Whilst there are short-term cycles of thirty years and sixty years, representing the span of one and two generations respectively of human life, or indeed of the cyclical impacts of planetary movements, longer-term history makes greater sense if viewed over a much wider span of time. Durable dynasties and ambitious empires do seem to have had a life span of about three hundred years (for example, in China); with some notable exceptions.

It is interesting to note that, in relation to official policies relating to political economy, an Indian scholar has claimed that a society that does not repeat the mistakes of its fathers will certainly repeat the mistakes of its grandfathers! Not very encouraging a concept. It is bad enough that the Cosmos and everything within it is subject to cyclical movements, as claimed by some very long-gone Hindus. The ubiquitous Anon did offer a useful perspective: "Every time history repeats itself, the price goes up."

My father never talked about his past. Was there some tragedy behind his silence? He always looked to the future. Strangely, he was remarkably well equipped with quotations in English, and he would trot these out at appropriate times. He had a good command of the English language as well, with correct use of grammar. Since he had not finished school before migrating to Malaya, I have wondered whether the latter years of school are relevant for those not pursuing a professional or academic career. Although he worked five and a half days a week, my father's ancestral skills in farming were manifest in his ability to grow orchids successfully. No other casual gardener in our neighbourhood had been known to achieve that. With paid help, he had also achieved a collection of about fifty pot plants, which were the envy of passersby. Yet, no orchid flower or pot plant was ever stolen, although poverty surrounded the cluster of government houses in which we lived.

My father, believing in helping his fellow man, gave casual work to anyone who asked. For example, for a period, an Indian barber would announce his presence by ringing his bicycle bell. My father would let him shave him each morning he was around. Then there was an Indian woman who wore no upper garment, but used the loose end of her sari to cover her sagging breasts. From time to time, she would appear, offering to scrub out our drains. Other Indians swept the small yard or did some other work. No one, to my knowledge, was denied some small paid task. I believe that my parents were displaying their gratitude to the Cosmos for our relative security and well-being.

My father married a beautiful and charming woman who retained her beauty until widowed prematurely. She was a distant relative, resident in Ceylon, who brought a small dowry in the usual tradition. Custom demanded that the groom have a reliable income, and be able to house and feed his family. As custom also led to brides being married off early, my mother was typically a few years younger than my father. The dowry was ostensibly to safeguard the future of the children. As I was told, it was better that the bride bring a dowry, rather than to have the groom buy his bride, as was the practice in certain other cultures.

Dowry demands can, and do, cause serious problems. An elderly widow, with no asset other than her small home, felt impelled to hand over her home as dowry to one of her daughters. This discriminated against her other daughter. Why? Because the prospective son-in-law was now addressed as 'Doctor.' Years later, his wife was heard to ask her husband why he and his parents had insisted on the house. The widow had then to share a bedroom with the children of her son, for years. Could not her 'doctor' son-in-law have returned the house, or provided her with a small flat of her own, or invited her to live with him and her daughter? Devotion to ritualistic Hinduism and a dedication to asset accumulation were not even closely related.

Thus, daughters were seen as a potential financial hazard in my community. An English proverb says it succinctly: 'Daughters and dead fish are no keeping wares.' However, I do not believe that my three sisters were seen as such.

My mother was well read in our tongue, but had difficulty with spoken English. Since she too had left school early, but was, together with her husband, able to assist us with our studies, I suspected that my parents (and other parents as well) were expanding their education through the children.

Since the British in Malaya were seeking administrators who could speak English comfortably, my mother's brothers and many other Ceylon Tamils also went to Malaya, in a chain migration. But they almost always went back to the homeland for their brides, through arranged marriages. This was in the first half of the twentieth century. Soon, whilst the Malays remained as farmers and fishermen in their pristine kampongs, with their sultans ruling them in considerable comfort, and their imams guiding them to God, their country was being filled up with Indians to work the rubber estates, with Chinese to work the tin mines and on building sites, and with Ceylon Tamils to run the administrative machinery. The sight of Chinese building construction workers (both men and women) climbing upon scaffolding constructed of thick bamboo stems tied with rattan (a pliable rope-like palm), or walking along narrow planking linking one floor to the other whilst carrying baskets of bricks on their backs or shoulders, was impressive. How many died or were maimed in this process, per building?

Naturally, traders, shop keepers, money lenders, small business men, and labourers followed, mainly from all parts of India and the south of China. The investors were predominantly British, because they controlled the outlets for export goods. All development in colonial territories was focused on the export and industrial needs of Britain. The local economy in a colony was either destroyed or modified to suit Britain's resource needs or export industries. India and Egypt are prime examples of viable native economies destroyed by this process. Infrastructure in the form of roads, railways, ports, schools and aviation was an essential component in this program; the obvious resulting benefits to the locals were never-the-less incidental.

Yet, in a recent book on the debacle of Britain's non-defence of its Malayan interests, it was claimed that the rubber barons of Malaya had, when Britain entered into war with Hitler's Germany, held back on deliveries of much-needed rubber to Britain, in order to raise the price they received for their product. This book also pointed out that the small- scale native producers of rubber were paid less than the British producers, for comparable quality.

Within a generation, Ceylon Tamils dominated the major sectors of medical services, other health services, railways, the postal service, and education. Some Malays and Chinese moved into the public service eventually, because government jobs do provide security. In the postwar period and after independence, one of my cousins became a policy chief in medical services, and another cousin in pharmaceutical services. After independence, the Malays, aided by an affirmative action policy, were able progressively to take back their nation – but that is another story.

I did visit my ancestral home once – at age five. We travelled by sea. We were, as was customary at that time, deck passengers on Japanese cargo vessels. That is, we slept on mats, fed ourselves, carried out our ablutions, and prayed, on the deck of the ship, adjacent to the ship's cargo. Although all this sounds pretty horrible, I cannot remember life on deck, but my younger sister does. I remember, however, almost falling into the sea as we were being disembarked at night onto tenders in Colombo Harbour.

Although a child's memory can generally go back to about age three, I remember only the dusty roads in Jaffna; the home of my step-grandmother with a courtyard protected by rooms and a verandah; clever crows stealing food from the hands of my sister, causing her to complain vociferously; a public swimming pool some distance away with alleged healing powers; and a strange practice in someone's home of washing down the walls and floor in the kitchen with cow dung. I remember seeing the cow dung made pliable with water, applied by hand, and then washed off. I was later told by a New Zealand nurse who had worked in Nepal for a quarter of a century that cow dung was applied there to heal cuts and other damage, that is, as a curative; and that attempts to introduce modern treatments were not successful. Perhaps the cost of imported medicines influenced local decisions.

I do not remember any of the people I met in Ceylon. My memories of clan disputes leads me to like the proverb 'Do no business with a kinsman.' I do not suppose that anyone in Sri Lanka remembers me either. But, it has to be said that a branch of the extended family did become rich through trade. But, the emphasis by Ceylon Tamils to produce doctors (and to marry them) continues. Apparently, the Jewish people have an identical instinct. Were the two peoples somehow linked in the distant past?

The multi-disciplinary I. Velikovsky, who introduced in the 1950s the notion of cosmic catastrophes significantly affecting Earth, quotes the historical Clearchus of Soli thus: "The Jews descended from the philosophers of India. The philosophers are called, in India, Calanians and, in Syria, Jews." He also quotes Ambassador Megasthenes (representing Seleucus, ruler of the Middle East around 300 BC) at the Court of Chandragupta in India: "All the opinions expressed by the ancients about nature are found with the philosophers foreign to Greece; with the Brahmans of India and, in Syria, with those called Jews." I wonder what an analysis of mitochondria DNA might show. In this context, I did read that the Punjabis and the Croatians might have shared, a very long time ago, a common ancestor. Sometimes I feel that I can see some similarities in body structure and attitudes!

As for me, I am effectively a third-generation Malayan educated in an ethnically diverse environment, with parents who had little or no contact with their remaining relatives in Ceylon. I have therefore no reason to visit Ceylon or feel any link with it. My maternal grandfather had, when his wife died, married his wife's sister. This was a common practice. Why did the sister remain unmarried? Lack of dowry or a suitable spouse? How did this happen with so many families? I had no answer to these speculations in later life. But, I was aware that a step-mother, with her own brood to protect, may have developed certain negative feelings about those step-children who were believed to be doing well in foreign lands. Indeed, I was told by an elderly friend that my mother had had a rough time at the hands of her step-mother when she was only a child.

The frequency of requests for money from Ceylon to Malaya said something about the relationships between the emigrants and the relatives they had left behind. Indeed, relatives living in the dowry homes of those overseas would seek money to carry out repairs to these homes. Did they pay rent? I could not find out. During the second world war, some of these relatives, pretending that the owners in Malaya were surely dead, had laid legal claim to these houses. I also heard of a later law in postwar Sri Lanka which apparently permitted residents of homes with absentee owners to claim ownership by occupancy after twenty years. It was therefore not surprising to me that, in the light of reported contests (including legal action) about property, any bonds with relatives in Jaffna would be substantially weakened over time. My impression was that, for many, physical property was 'thicker' than blood. As my father once said, "Thank God we can choose our friends." He was supported by a Japanese adage: 'One friend is better than a hundred relations.'

Thus, the future had indeed captured me. There was no looking back to a place I did not know, or to a people I had not bonded with, or did not identify with. Did that not happen with the grandchildren of immigrants everywhere? Did ancestry then mean little more than a distant place of origin, with no feeling of attachment to that place or to its current inhabitants? Further, had cultural practices changed in that distant place so that those traditional practices so faithfully retained by the emigrants in their new home do not resonate any more with those currently upheld in that ancestral land? In this context, it is worthy of note that some Anglo-Australians tend to refer derogatively to British immigrants as 'Poms'. A new Australian identity had clearly evolved to encompass the earlier British immigrants in all their ethno-cultural variety in their new homeland. The strand of ancestral origin in their bundle of identities (especially national, tribal, or personal) had thus been effectively devalued. In the event, is it worth asking: on what platform does a claimed ethnic culture stand on in the new homeland? Purely memories? Are these relevant for current times?

In modern Singapore, a community of Hindus, ethnically and linguistically diverse in origin, have been consolidated by an Indian guru. He has bonded these diverse people, and taught them to dispense with their reliance on Brahmin priests and their rituals. He has taught them practices appropriate for significant events such as funerals, weddings, and such like. Hatches, matches and dispatches are now community controlled and celebrated. The bonding of these diverse peoples is, however, enabled by their adherence to shared literature and philosophy in the form of the Ramayana and Mahabharatha (the great Indian epics), to shared beliefs regarding God and the Cosmos, and to shared dance forms, musical expressions, and artistic representations.

This cohesive approach has been found attractive by the younger generation, especially as temple attendance has fallen off. The reference to the debilitating influence of a full belly on religiosity by British Prime Minister Gladstone a couple of centuries ago is also supported by falling church attendances by Christians in Western nations.

Boyhood

For me, it was an idyllic life. Judging by the way our babies were, and are, treated, I would have been gushed over, cuddled, petted, and surrounded by as many females as might be free to drop in. I would have been held in someone's lap forever or, when placed on the ground on a mat, oiled and massaged all over. My nose would have been pinched and stretched, my scalp gently rubbed, and I would have been lovingly fed, burped and rocked to sleep. Without any nappy, I would have kicked and hosed freely. I was not (I hope) 'a loud noise at one end, and no sense of responsibility at the other' as said by some clever English writer about babies. Any baby as lovingly treated as ours were could be expected to develop an enduring sense of security and belonging. I believe I did.

Why the nose treatment? Since the shape of my own nose and the colour of my skin, like that of most of my maternal relatives, are clearly northern in very distant origin, I suspect that this treatment represented an effort to retain our original physiognomy. I do not, however, believe that this practice made any difference to our noses or to any feeling about belonging elsewhere in history.

A photo taken when I was a baby showed a chubby little chap, with plump buttocks. My first reliable memory is of my beloved younger sister and I playing trains. I remember pulling a little curly-haired girl by her legs, with her back being dragged along the rough concrete floor, whilst I went "choo, choo" and "toot, toot". Both of us enjoyed this game until our parents sought to explain the little girl's abraded back, especially as she had been wearing a singlet at all times. We then had to find some other game.

As we grew up, we remained close. Our bond would last for life, even after a twenty-five year separation at one time. I lost my little playmate when I went to my English school at seven years of age. Before that, when the heat of the sun was abating, my sister and I would play or walk together on the field in front of the house. One evening, my sister's hair-ribbon fell off when we were out. To the delight of our parents who were keeping an eye on us, I somehow re-tied my sister's ribbon. I was highly commended for my care of my sister, which is why I remember the event. It was also the talk of the community for a while, for boys were supposed to be miniature macho men. This is probably why I cannot remember being hugged or cuddled, or shown any physical parental love.

Indeed, at age five, my mother declared that I was now a man, and gave me an adult curry which, by tradition, was fiery. All my life I have remembered how my mouth burned that day and the days following. Ceylonese curry is the hottest (chili-hot) curry in the world, the pungency being gradually reduced the further north one went on the Indian subcontinent. Thus, Pakistani or north Indian curry is for pussycats.

The reality of this was demonstrated some years later, when my Anglo-Australian sister-in-law and, later, an Englishman who had been in the British army in India both asked me for a hot curry, saying they were used to it. When I produced one of my mother's curries, I was confounded by the suffering displayed by each of my guests. They drank milk, beer or water and ate a banana, and added sugar to the curry to break it down. The Englishman had served only on the North-West Frontier Province of India, and my sister-in-law's Indian friend turned out to be a Pakistani. My mother's curries would obviously have killed off half the population of Pakistan and the North-West Frontier Province.

This was confirmed by my Australian wife who once watched my mother add two heaped tablespoons full of pure chili power to a very small pot of curry, turning the gravy into liquid fire. Only grandma and her son could consume this without visible suffering.

Before I was dubbed a man, at about four years of age, I was taken to a Tamil school not far from home. One day, deciding that I did not like the teacher's tone of voice in talking to me, I left the class without much ado, and somehow found my way home – never to return. My parents could not understand how I had found my way home! This may have been the first instance that this key facet of my character became evident. Another facet was a temper, inherited from my father, which was normally well controlled in a culturally correct manner by both of us. It could not have been otherwise, because I remember my mother repeatedly warning me not to be like my father. Presumably, on each occasion, I had somehow displayed to her the potential for an outburst. Had she read Shakespeare's 'Come not between a dragon and his wrath'?

I certainly remember my father, who was normally a placid, controlled person, blowing his top from time to time, frightening the birds out of the trees. I presume that this happened when the uncertainties and difficulties of life got the better of him. My father was not alone in expressing anger, frustration or fear thus. Other men were also heard to beat their children and, occasionally, their wives. Beating and slaps by fathers, and tweaked ears and pinches by mothers, were commonplace amongst all the ethnic communities, as were cutting words and slighting comparisons with dumb or slothful animals. Indeed, I remember being beaten by my father, with a piece of wood which happened to be handy, just for being tardy in returning home after delivering a message to my uncle down the street. This happened when I was seventeen! Yet, he was not a violent man.

On the other hand, that Indian neighbour who had helped us when the Japanese had been inspecting all the homes had a reputation for beating his attractive Chinese wife. A brilliant violinist, he was known to come home from time to time a little under the weather, through alcohol. Then we would hear a thrashing and female screams, and we would sympathise with the wife privately. Some time later, she ran away with an attractive Ceylonese man. It was then that we learnt the truth. The husband would take to the bottle when his mother reported that his wife had been with her lover. When he had acquired sufficient liquid courage, he would tax his wife with her alleged infidelity. She would then grab a broom made from the spines of a palm leaf, beat the wall with it, screaming loudly with each beat. She would stop when the husband apologized to her, and chastised his mother for lying.

The story-book tradition of an Asian mother-in-law dominating or bullying her son's wife had little credibility in this household. We, who had been so judgmental, were suitably chastised. The old woman, if she had read Dickens, might well have said, 'She's the sort of woman... one would almost feel disposed to bury for nothing: and do it neatly too.'

However, we had a tradition of even adults being slapped for minor misdemeanours or for disrespect shown. For instance, a cook was slapped by one of my uncles for adding flour in the Chinese style to thicken a gravy. Another cook was slapped for leaving a hair (presumably the cook's) on a dish being set on the tale. An elderly father might slap an adult son, who might be a father himself. I remember slapping the owner/principal of a private school when I had not been paid for my teaching services for a month.

When, in time, as absolute authoritarianism within families began to be eroded progressively, seemingly to reflect a world-wide postwar generational change in attitudes, one of my mature relatives slapped his elderly father when the latter tried to exercise the authority of earlier times. In Australia, in the decade of the noughties in the twenty-first century, parents were officially warned not to chastise their children by physical means. As a consequence, there is visibly bad behaviour, some clearly carefully calculated, by children in public places; and teenagers are known to refuse to share any responsibility within or outside their home.

Yet in modern Malaysia and Singapore, children (including teenagers) behave as expected in the traditional manner, without apparently being beaten. Indeed, young adults continue to display respect to their elders, not all of whom are genetic. I have been addressed as 'uncle' in public places by people of other ethnic or national origins. Against that, my grandchildren, like their age cohorts, address their uncles and aunts by their respective first names. Since we are not born equal, and cannot expect to be made equal, with all and sundry, does not diminished respect for seniority or authority indicate an erosion of manners, that unguent which lubricates social relations? I feel that there has to be a midway point, when parents and teachers seek compliance by children with the codes of conduct of civilised communities, between the extreme authoritarianism of my boyhood and the seemingly total freedom now available in large measure to children in the West.

My mother did, however, have a weapon up her sleeve in counselling me about appropriate behaviour, as I might have been seen by her to have a fiery core well covered by a compliant co-operative exterior. From time to time, she would remind me that the youngest of her brothers limped from an injury caused by me when I was three years old. I had lost my temper with said uncle and thrown a pair of scissors at the departing bare heels. That was the story I was told. I could not remember the event, but accepted it as real. Much later, I examined my memory bank critically, and realized that I had held that story as a memory only because of what I had been told. Whilst probably a real event, it was a false memory. Today, if I cannot visualize a scene in my mind, then it is not a memory. With events and scenes of significance, I can actually see what happened. "He's got a memory like an elephant", said a close relative (with whom I had grown up) only a few years ago.

A more reliable memory than the one about wounding an uncle is about going to school by car with my sister and a few other children of like age. My father had bought a car (how could he have afforded it I wondered in later years) driven by a Malayalee man (from south India) who lived in the servant's room adjacent to the kitchen He spoke Tamil. I remember him in a meditative pose late every afternoon. But that did not prevent him from dying at forty-five years of age. An early 1930s car would, of course, be a much-loved vintage car in modern times. It had a lovely shape and useful running boards, and was started by a crank handle in front of the radiator. In one instance, the driver's inexperienced brother broke his right forearm through inexpert cranking.

We children attended a vernacular school at the other end of town. Because we had to collect children from a couple of other homes, we were sometimes late for school. At the age of five and six, I use to receive two cuts on my right hand on each occasion I was late, which was usually no more than five minutes. The injustice of this rankled, to the extent that all through my life I have fought for justice in whatever community I am in. I did wonder why it was the writing hand that the teacher preferred to mark with his cane. Perhaps he came from the same mould as the celibate Indian teachers in a Catholic school who seemed to love using the strap on the bare backside of Joseph, my Indian neighbour. The link between celibacy and brutality may not have been made then. To my knowledge, our parents did not intervene. I presume that reflected the perspective of a people who valued education most highly and considered teaching to be a noble profession.

On one lovely morning (all mornings in the tropics being lovely), on our way to school, the children in the back of the car cried a warning. As the son of the boss, I naturally sat in the front. A child had somehow caused the door behind the driver to open and fallen onto the road. In panic, the driver noticed that it was his boss' daughter. She was just sitting on the road, but looking stunned. The child being unharmed (how?), that was the end of the matter.

But, now it was my turn to be involved in a car accident. On our way home from visiting a Singhalese family at a distant township, our family car was rammed by a car driven onto the wrong side of the road by a group of intoxicated and noisy Sikhs. Only I (sitting by the driver) was injured, with cuts to my face and neck caused by a shattered windscreen. Could one describe that as a multicultural event?

At about seven, I entered an English language school close enough to my home either to cycle or to walk there. The car disappeared. My father had an operation, carried out by a visiting English surgeon. Of the four patients operated on by him for the same problem, only my father survived. As school took up only half a day, two schools shared the buildings and grounds, a very cost-effective operation. Our schools were not child minding centres which allowed parents to go to work (as happens in Australia). Before classes commenced, and during the break midway in the school day, loud English music, of a martial nature, was played over a loudspeaker system. The residents surrounding the school (including the school principal's wife) must have been totally fed up with the same tunes each day, which were no doubt chosen by some Englishman in the local education department. The teachers were all Asian, with a mix of the major ethnicities, as were the students. I remember a Malay boy who used to capture his farts in one hand, and then open his palm to each of his immediate neighbours in turn. I also remember envying a Chinese boy who could sketch a scene without drawing any straight lines.

Getting to school was always a rush. Going home half a day later was, however, a more relaxed matter. I remember occasionally stopping, sometimes with a classmate, to scoop out some clay from a depression in the ground being prepared for an addition to the school, and trying to make interesting shapes. On other occasions I (we) might meander across some open ground, crossing a deep storm water drain by balancing precariously on the cylindrical water-pipe across it. If there was any stagnant water around, we would look for tadpoles. Equipped with small bottles the next day, I would capture a few, take them home, and place them in a shallow basin of water. I never got any frogs from these tadpoles, presumably because what I fed them was not appropriate. It was all very leisurely. Spare time then was ours exclusively. We were also allowed to be inventive with our extra-curricular activities. We were not organized as the children are today.

It was much more fun collecting sea shells during our annual school holidays, and leaving them in these basins of water – where they certainly looked most attractive. My parents probably kept a close watch on these activities, but did not intervene in any manner. After all, a boy with only younger sisters had to entertain himself until late afternoon, when other boys of like age might be let out to play. Not all were, to my surprise. Why? I had no idea. I was also required to entertain myself for about two weeks for each of three years, from the age of nine, when I was sent to stay with a childless couple. They were distant relatives.

It was a five-hour trip each way, over the mountain range forming the spine of Malaya. Travelling alone, I enjoyed the spectacular scenery whilst the bus struggled up steep slopes along a very winding road. The vegetation, especially the huge and very tall bamboo stands, was most interesting. The thick foliage, the colour of the flowers, and the bird life seen and heard was balm to my soul. Once I arrived, I had nothing to do, no one to play with, nothing to read. In the total silence of a home adjacent to virgin jungle in a town sparsely populated, I used to slide down, most carefully, a steep concrete side to a large number of steps. Again and again I slid slowly on my bottom, trying not to be dragged down by gravity to a definable disaster. By the end of my visit, my shorts had no backside.

The third and last year, my sister, about eight years old, travelled with me. My parents certainly had faith in my ability to look after her. There, after ten days of continuous rain, our aunt (all female elders were aunts) took my sister for a walk through a corner section of the neighbouring jungle to the local shops. It was an established short cut. When my little sister put her hand on a hanging branch to guide her steps up a slippery track, the apparent branch pulled itself up. It must have a very large python. There were no more short cuts and no more visits to that jungle district.

At my boys-only school, soccer was played during the interval. We wore the same white canvas shoes we had worn to school. In fact, few of us owned any other shoes. The shoes had to be pristine white each morning, like our short-sleeved shirts and knee-length baggy shorts. I cleaned my shoes and gave them a whitewash after school. When I participated in a sports afternoon at school, or when I became a Wolf Cub and, later, a Scout, the shoe cleansing took place only after my return home. When I played soccer on the field in front of my house late in the afternoon, when the sun was not so scorching, my mates and I had to play barefoot. This necessitated a period, after the soccer, dedicated to digging out the thorns which had penetrated our feet. A sewing needle or safety pin and a little patience mixed with pain was so soul and sole strengthening.

My feet were never toughened like those of some of my classmates. I remember one whose soles were pitted. I suspect that he could walk on hot coals, barefoot. Actually, one of my second cousins once undertook a fire-walk. It was as penance for some sin or other. He was not damaged. He said to me that he had run across the bed of glowing hot coals, after some ritualistic preparation.

In my first year at school, I topped my class each term. I found study easy. I enjoyed the challenge of mental arithmetic and some problem solving. It was useful being born gifted with a memory. Remembering the 'times tables' (up to 16x16) and the spelling was not difficult. I topped my class every term after that year, except once. In spite of that, I was woken up at dawn and told to study. What, I used to wonder. I had a ridiculous memory, like blotting paper, absorbing and retaining everything I looked at. I did not learn; instead, I remembered. Until about age twenty-four, I relied on memory, which is not a good basis for understanding (as distinct from knowing) a subject or an issue.

At the end of my first year at the English school, Ratna Uncle gave me a soccer ball, promising me a new (and larger) one each year I came first in class. No problem. As I was the only kid in the district to own a soccer ball, anyone of an acceptable size could join the game on the small field in front of my house. With the help of some parents, we sat up goal posts, mentally marked out boundaries, and played. At times, there might be up to twenty young boys on the small field. Our play was always fair, and disagreements were sorted out by consensus; that a parent might be observing us from one of the homes surrounding the ground might have ensured good conduct. Anyway, it was valuable training in consensus.

My fellow soccer players were Indian, Ceylonese and Eurasian, but not Chinese or Malay. That inter-ethnic relationship was also useful experience for our future. The Malays lived in a cluster of homes a little too far away, but where they had a tennis court! The few Chinese boys lived in large, fenced and gated homes beyond the complex of government homes, well protected by yapping or fierce guard dogs, and travelling everywhere by car. Wealth does cause divisions in any society. Yet, at school, my playmates included the son of a low-paid Indian postman, as well as Chinese and Eurasians. In this context, my elders pointed out something significant – that the Eurasians did not receive favoured treatment in appointments or promotions. In India and Ceylon, the Anglo-Indians and the so-called Burghers (respectively) enjoyed a privileged status. Perhaps the Malay sultans had a say in this non-discriminatory policy.

Those of us playing on that field must have been an enterprising lot. Although we did not experience any seasonal weather changes, except for the predictable monsoon rains twice a year, we somehow seemed to know when to stop playing soccer and move to cricket, and then to badminton, to hockey, to marbles, or kite flying. Our changes in sport were apparently coincident with similar changes across the Pacific and other parts of south-east Asia, according to a peripatetic journalist. How on earth were these changes signalled across this vast space, asked the journalist rhetorically. What triggered these changes? The monsoons? How would we kids know anything like that? I do know that somehow we managed to cajole our elders to obtain for us used equipment and balls for cricket and hockey, and badminton racquets, shuttlecocks and a net. The grass on the field was never cut; it was just worn down.

On a corner of our triangular field, a cow or two might graze, posing no problem, unless there was a calf involved. Then, speed was of the essence, as mother cow would suddenly launch an attack. There was also the chance of an odd poseur practising golf, although the chances of a local resident getting into a golf club were zilch. I do remember being hit hard by a golf ball where my third eye is supposed to be, when I was playing soccer one late afternoon. I do wonder if my intuitive capacity might have somehow been enhanced thus, in the manner of a Buddhist Zen master whacking a novitiate on his temple to bring about that sudden spiritual awakening sought. As appropriate, we cleared the ground for a cricket pitch or a badminton court, and set up necessary posts. For athletics, we set up a frame for the high jump and pole vault, and cut appropriate lengths of bamboo for the latter. I seemed to do much of the construction (with adult help, of course). I was also the custodian. Occasionally, we walked about three miles either way to challenge another soccer team. We could travel anywhere in safety. There were no paedophiles or thugs.

Whatever we did, we were guided and trusted by our fathers, as long as we were home on time and not injured. Being injured would imply an inability to look after oneself. I do believe that enjoying freedom within firm outer limits, and being trusted in the way we were, engendered both self-confidence and a sense of responsibility. Breaking the outer limits was, of course, never an option. The price would be too high. Shakespeare (in King Lear) did refer to '... the great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office.'

Being allowed the freedom to be self-sufficient led me to undertake kite fighting. I made kites using a frame of slivers of bamboo, which I cut using a hand axe. String, rice paper, cooked rice as glue, an empty can to wind the string around, bottle glass to be crushed to an appropriate grit size, and some rice flour to be converted to a paste in which the crushed glass would be mixed, were the other necessary components. Without gloves (what were they?), the string would be run through the glass-enriched paste, dried on the hot ground, and wrapped around the can. Road testing might lead to tails of rice paper or strips of cloth being attached. Then the game would begin.

Way up in the sky, there would be cross-winds causing the kite strings to cross, even though the flyers were far apart. A kite fight could begin and end very quickly. Or, one would manoeuvre for quite a while to catch a cross wind way up there. It was a matter of patience, a degree of skill, and a modicum of luck, just to commence a fight. Either the warring kites became entangled and crashed a long way from the fliers, or (more likely) one of the kites would be cut loose. And a horde of little boys would tear down any path available to capture the detached kite. Finders were keepers, especially as the owner of any kite that was lost would be too busy saving his string. The fliers were also likely to be a fair distance away from each other, and where the lost kite might land. The odds were that it would be stuck in a tree, with very agile boys seeking to retrieve it, somehow, anyhow.

I once successfully made a bow and arrows using split bamboo. I practiced my accuracy against the door of the storeroom, until my father wanted to know about the cause of the depressions in the door. As if he did not know. One day, when I was at the roadside with my bow and arrow, along came one of the mini-thugs who periodically tormented me on my way to afternoon sport or Cub meeting. Not believing my luck, I rushed at him calling out 'hands up'. That phrase would have reminded my teachers that I had progressed from Enid Blyton to books about cowboys and other adventure stories. To my pleasant surprise, my mini-thug raised both his arms, and thereby fell off his bike. With the solemnity and charity of a civilized victor, I left him there. I was never tormented again.

Because I was tormented (but only with words) by others occasionally, I realised that my meek demeanour might be the cause. My mother had certainly over-done her control of my alleged temper! So, one day, I decided to take on a casual tormenter who liked to pick on me as I walked past his house. I walked up to him and swung a punch. He responded, but equally ineffectively. After a few more minutes, seeing that neither of us could do any damage, we walked away from each other, with smouldering backward glances and low growls. Thus ended his aggression. On another occasion, I tossed half a bucket of water on a fellow who was beginning to get my goat, but we remained friends because he was only teasing. I then developed a warning look which, for some reason, was effective. I used to wonder: what did that look say? Did it say 'don't push your luck'? Anyway, I was always ready to run, with confidence that I was a fast runner..

I gave up my Robin Hood practice when, one day, I aimed my arrow at an unsuspecting sparrow a fair distance away in our yard. To my surprise, I hit it. The little bird dropped dead. That was it; the remorse of the young killer was such that he remains unable even to go fishing! Buddhist instincts about sentient beings may have been dormant until that poor sparrow came along. But I am averse to having a hungry tiger eat me, in spite of my knowledge that it is only the tiger's nature, not any personal antipathy towards me, that might lead it to want me for dinner.

In Australia, I do not know whether youngsters had to fend for themselves to play sport before and during the war. Postwar, all sport seemed to be highly organized and controlled, with parents being taxi drivers, coaches, administrators, etc. My children, born in Australia, had a very comfortable sporting life. All they had to do was to be coached and to play. Proper sporting attire was the norm. Sporting attire in my youth was no different from day wear, that is, shorts and shirt.

Indoors, Malay and Indian men and boys wore sarongs. So did we. Like the Scots wearing kilts, the 'family jewels' were not encased, thereby keeping them as cool as possible. We wore a white _veshti_ on ceremonial or religious occasions, including attending a temple. Our women wore saris both within and outside the home, with some preferring a sarong.

The great tragedy of my life is that I was born multi-skilled and with a ridiculously reliable memory. This led my mother to make the terrible mistake, in her undeserved ambitions, of assuming that I could achieve impossible targets. For example, in later years, she once imagined that I could complete a six-year medical course in four! She also expected me to be skilled in playing the harmonium, and accompanying myself in song. Yet, the occupation of musician among the Hindus was only for the socially lowly. Why, oh God, why?

It took me a lifetime to understand that the destiny of destruction I had carved out for myself through previous lifetimes required efficient intermediaries to achieve appropriate outcomes. My mother, through her own destiny, was the major instrumental intermediary for the way my initial academic effort was scuttled, and for my deep sense of guilt and loss of confidence lasting a quarter of a century. But, I doubt if she had any choice in the matter.

The outcomes of a personal destiny also require the intervention of a network of other intermediaries. These could be sociological, eg. Roman Catholic 'Irish' Australians ganging up against me in a public service department. I was thereby induced, in retaliation and for self-preservation, to become usefully expert in certain policy areas. I was subsequently able to apply this expertise in offering a small contribution to the building of a cultural bridge between where I came from and where I am (as advised through a psychic experience involving the spirit of Ratna Uncle and others).

Other intermediaries involved in the dance of Destiny could be historical events, eg. the impacts of the White Australia policy on (initially) early arrivals into Australia like me; as well as (later) the officially un-admitted administrative barrier against the entry of the brown peoples of south Asia (viz. the Indian sub-continent) until about the end of the 1980s. This led me to examine the historical relationships between peoples, nations and civilisations. The result was an affirmation of the strength and durability of my cultural heritage. No insult, intended or otherwise, relating to my skin colour, accent, religious beliefs or cultural values scratched the surface of my persona and confidence. Indeed, some Asian students and immigrants hit back at white racists by pointing out that the Asian civilisations went back at least five thousand years. Some Asians were rude enough to refer to white people 'coming down from the trees' a lot later in time.

This network of intermediaries facilitating the dance of Destiny would also include certain individuals, some of whom would be supportive, others destructive. A network of such complexity, which is yet effective in procuring karmic outcomes, is indeed difficult to comprehend. The pattern of influences and outcomes can be visible only after the event. But, who can tell whether outcomes match the karmic template? Any divergences might indicate that the individual had not grasped the challenges and opportunities as they emerged from the template.

My current understanding of the working of Destiny, based on the acceptance of reincarnation, is consistent with the belief structures of Hinduism and Buddhism. Christians deny both Destiny and reincarnation because they accept an intermediary authoritarian priesthood and an interventionist God. But, it would seem that, before the early Church decided to take control, reincarnation and rebirth represented the cultural heritage of all settled peoples. And there is some evidence supporting reincarnation.

As for my opportunity to become a musician, at a very early age, I was taught to play the harmonium and to accompany myself in song. I did have a clear and penetrating voice which, in the western world, would label me as a boy soprano. When my voice changed, I swore that I would never sing again. Why? Because, I probably screeched in that jarring Indian style of singing by high-pitched voices. This might have annoyed our neighbours. Any display by my mother of her oh-so-clever son would also not have been appreciated.

In time, the harmonium disappeared, and I was then required to memorise, every afternoon, a segment of Hindu religious writing, full of guidance for living whilst remaining in the eye of God. My knowledge of classical Tamil was not good enough, however, for me to understand what I was learning by heart.

For comparison, in the short time I spent in high school, I understood exactly what Shakespeare, as well as the great English poets, were saying to the reader – because, by then, my understanding of the English language was adequate to the task.

It is a tragic reality that, in our effort to become viable in a modernising, westernising milieu, many of the Ceylon Tamils sacrificed our mother tongue in favour of English. In contrast to our spoken English, which matched our written English, most of us spoke only a colloquial form of Tamil. Whilst out accents in speaking English did reflect our mother tongue, our spoken English was correct. This was not so with most Chinese and many Malays. They, on the other hand, retained their mother tongues. Thus, whilst my family and our relatives included English words in our speech, even at home, I know that the other Asians did not do that. Today, all of my extended family speak English most of the time. Classical Tamil became lost to us in a single generation. However, there are many Ceylon Tamils in Malaya who have maintained their links with the classical forms of their language.

Modernisation does not necessarily lead to a significant diminution of traditional cultural values. There are conservative Ceylonese women who, after a lifetime in Western nations (where their husbands earn a good living), have successfully retained their cultural practices. Adaptation to the cultural mores of the nations which are now the only home for their children is superficial. Yet, the children cannot be drawn back into the past. They will integrate progressively into their own milieu. Those who seek to hang onto some rituals, including the preparation of meals, may not fully realize the logic initially underpinning these rituals. The value of some (or all) of the rituals will thus be lost.

What was curious about my upbringing is that a religious teacher, perhaps on the way to becoming a guru, is usually a simple man, wrapped in the cloak of God. He would thus be more than aware that the maya of earthly existence has to be transcended by us progressively detaching ourselves from pre-occupation with form and number, personal identity, and other trappings of society. How then was I also to become a medical doctor, thereby providing my progenitors with wealth and status? In my saner moments in later life, I would smile wryly at the image of the man I was being groomed to be: a harmonium player singing about the glory of God, and preaching the virtues of a simple un-materialistic life based on the classical texts of Hinduism, whilst accumulating shekels by curing the sick and infirm in my palatial home; and my family basking in the warmth of my success. Thankfully, that was not to be. The Cosmos does operate in a coherent way and thereby ensure justice, eventually!

All of a sudden, the prospect of gurudom was taken away from me. I would have to find my own path to that state, if that was what I sought, some other time. I now was to be prepared for a westernised modern life, including playing European classic music on the violin. It would certainly be more congruent with the practice of Western medicine in a modernising world in which traditional practices and treatments in the arts of healing were being displaced. Then the war came. And my idyllic boyhood ended at thirteen. My life of peace and success were over. Lifelong disturbances and destruction awaited – but I did not know that.

The way we lived

Security of income, the stability of our society, and serenity of faith and existence represented the tenor of my family's prewar life. Others who also lived in government quarters should have shared this peaceful life. Clusters of such housing were scattered throughout the township of Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaya (which then included the island of Singapore). Private housing of varying quality was intermixed, also in clusters, with the 'government servant' housing. (The phrase 'your obedient servant' was then in fashion.) The wealthy naturally lived in big houses surrounded by huge amounts of land, on the outskirts of the town. The poor lived in small and simple houses within the town, often close together, sharing the ground around the houses, in kampong-like style. Cleanliness and tidiness tended to prevail, reflecting a hinduistic approach; namely that cleanliness is next to godliness.

One thing was certain; everybody prayed for good health and good luck – as the gods, or the Almighty himself, could be fickle if ignored, or not properly addressed. It is the nature of mankind to seek support from the Cosmos, even if an understanding of all that there is, or seems to be, is not clear – no matter how many modern academic philosophers stand on the head of a pin chanting that God is dead or that there is no god.

It is now quite fashionable to show the gulf between what the Good Books of the three inter-linked desert religions say, and the practices of the authoritarian priesthoods of these religions, in order to deny these religions. I do wonder how these critics can so easily ignore the primary messages of all three religions. Those who deny God can also assert, by reference to psychiatrists of the ancient European kind, that it is only those who are psychologically damaged or dependent who turn to religion. What evidence is provided by these critics? When did psychiatry utilize the methodology of science? Yet other critics claim that science has proven that God is not involved in the creation or maintenance of the Cosmos. I would like to see the evidence for that assertion. As my father used to say, 'The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on.'

So, there it is – the certainty of belief in non-belief against the certainty of belief in belief, neither being demonstrable nor capable of proof (as we know the latter). That some of the great thinkers of mankind have, over the millennia, managed to conceive some of the most complex of concepts in their attempts to explain the Cosmos and the place of mankind in it are brushed aside by modern materialists. When confronted by statements that the universe is created anew every 8.46 billion years, one has to wonder whether an earlier advanced civilization had blown itself up or had been destroyed by impersonal cosmic chunks of rock.

With faith upholding us, our daily life was simple. We were all up at about six am. As an 'owl', that is, one who could stay up late but had difficulty waking up in the morning, I would be quite dopey for a little while. One could easily imagine how much study I achieved early in the morning. Evacuating one's bowel was a priority, although an extra and often unpredictable call in the middle of the night might have occurred, reflecting a hotter than normal curry for dinner. Since we had bathed before prayer and dinner, a face wash in the morning was enough. Surreptitiously, I would run my wet fingers through tousled wavy hair before I combed it. Wetting one's hair was taboo! My sisters' hair would be dressed through mutual help and a light touch of oil. It was important, in combing or dressing hair, to display the forehead. The higher the forehead, the more intelligent the individual was deemed to be. Both Chinese and Indians shared this view.

In the meanwhile, our mother prepared and served breakfast. This was traditionally rice flour or green pea-based, accompanied by _gula melaka,_ sugar or gravy. Animal protein was a luxury. A prepared lunch for each of us was bread (made in Chinese bakeries) with jam (another British export success). My father did not take any prepared lunch but bought something at work.

For the more well-off among the Ceylonese and Indians, there was the Indian _tiffin_ carrier. He would deliver, for lunch, warm rice and curry prepared by the wives, or produced by an Indian food shop. The food was sealed in (usually) three round metal containers, in vertical order, held together by a frame with a handle on top. It was a practical contrivance. Buying meals was quite common for the populace at large. It still is. Inexpensive food was, and is, available at roadside food stalls or from a sole vendor operating from a bicycle. All necessary paraphernalia were attached to the bike. The food was generally consumed on site (that is, at the roadside) or in a nearby food shop at which a drink could be bought. In the former event, the plates were re-used simply by dipping them into a bucket. How was it that such a casual cleansing did not cause health problems? Food shops also provided tables and chairs, and a sink for washing one's hands. Thus they offered less of a health risk.

It was also interesting to note that the multi-ethnic populace was developing a multicultural taste in food. Yet, among my relatives, only traditional foods were cooked at home, and their method of preparation remained unchanged for the three generations I have experienced. So, the Hindus did not eat beef for religious reasons. They ignored pork for health reasons, in spite of it being the main meat for the Chinese populace. Our men, on the other hand, ate pork when out with Chinese friends. When living in the West, however, beef became acceptable – perhaps by necessity. How could one attend an Australian barbecue and not enjoy the sausages, if not the beef steaks and lamb chops?

For the children, with only half a day of school, there was time for homework, reading for pleasure or just playing, unless there was an after-hours school activity, like sports. Girls generally played indoors, making bangles and necklaces with beads of all kinds, or learning to sew, or playing with knuckle bones (or stones), or hopscotch, or skipping. Boys played with tops, which we made ourselves, or marbles; or rode around on our bikes. A top was carved from wood, with a large nail driven through it – often with disastrous initial results. Patience was thus developed. Time was inexhaustible. There was, of course, the soccer, and those other interests which some of us devised. All our activities were simple, and did not require adult supervision or attendance. We were not transported to our sporting or other similar activities.

I guess kids everywhere in the world are the same, except for those exploited as resources. Using up surplus energy before bedtime is a must, as demonstrated by little children everywhere in the world. These can suddenly seem full of beans just when the adults are preparing them for bed. Having got rid of previously unused energy, they could then collapse into sleep.

My mother's hobbies included painting borders on her more expensive saris, using paints and stencils imported from Britain. I used to help her with that. Her other hobbies were decorating tablecloths and the girls' clothes with thread and needle; creating wall hangings with wool; and knitting. .She also made all our clothes on a foot-pedal operated 'Singer' sewing machine, often varying the cut to improve the style. The orchid bed and pot plants took up what spare time and energy my father had.

Once a year, on Chinese New Year's Day, a Chinese colleague would visit my father. I never understood why my father did not visit him on that day. They would have only one brandy each. A bottle of brandy would thus last us a long time, as its use was medicinal. A teaspoonful for a child, and a tablespoonful for an adult, was added to an eggnog whenever one of us fell ill. I am not sure whether it was a curative or a rejuvenative.

When we children had finished our homework, we would sit outside as a family, just chatting, and marvelling at the myriad of stars looking down at us. The rings around the moon were another fascination, as were the plentiful 'shooting stars'. On some nights, these would be dropping all over the sky. On some evenings, we would listen to recorded music on a gramophone. I remember the label on the machine depicting a dog listening to his master's voice. Whilst my family listened to music, some of our friends were listening to short-wave radio. Modernisation was certainly embracing some of us. On rare evenings, for money was always scarce, we would stop a vendor and buy roasted peanuts or some cakes. The vendors had very bright acetylene lamps which were brighter than the exposed light globes in our houses. The shelled peanuts were roasted in hot sand as we waited, and delivered to excited young hands in small paper cones. The aroma was exciting and the taste sheer bliss.

Once a month, on payday, our father would arrive, by bus, with a bagful of sticky Indian cakes. These occasions were special. His premature death soon after the war put an end to such joyful occasions. And we would listen for that bus, in vain. In the good old days, on the odd afternoon, my mother would buy a bun from a Chinese vendor. We would eat the sweet bun at our afternoon tea at about 5pm, instead of the usual home-made fare. On rare occasions, we would have imported salty tinned butter on the bun, as a very special and expensive treat. On more rare occasions, we would each enjoy a slice of imported tinned cheese, which was also quite salty. From time to time, we would have a couple of very expensive English biscuits each. These were far superior to the Chinese biscuits which had an aroma, said to be derived from the duck eggs used. No matter where my father hid the tin of English biscuits, there would be a deficit in the tin each time he opened it. I was never caught. At night, we might even have a 'Horlicks' drink (I am not sure why, as I did not like the taste), instead of the usual small glass of milk. Westernisation could be unnecessarily costly.

I suspect that the British marketing men were quietly drawing my parents into their trap. Indeed, my uncles, all sporting men, were already attracted by English beer, Scotch whisky and (incredibly) Marmite (ye gods!). In fact, when my interstate uncle visited, usually on a Saturday, the midday curry meal might be preceded by a beer for both uncle and father. But, that was on special festive occasions. Otherwise, my father was a teetotaller.

We did not keep a dog. For us, a dog is not a pet. It is an early warning system which is kept outside. It would also bring dirt into the house. That approach made sense, since all outside footwear was always left at the door. Similarly, after a haircut, one could not enter the house without a bath, and a change of clothes. Cleanliness of one's person, clothing, and home and surrounds was imperative.

We took a bus to town when necessary. Social visits by the family were by rickshaw, as there were no buses in the evening.. Otherwise, we children walked or cycled everywhere. On some evenings, my parents would take a short walk. My mother always seemed to walk behind my father. A Western observer could conclude from this that Asian women were subservient to their men. My response to that would then be that, as she had shorter legs, she could not keep up with him! The truth of the matter was that it was safer to walk single file when the bicycle traffic was heavy. In any case, my observation was that both my mother and my aunt had their say in matters important. They were not chattels.

Our life, then, was relatively leisurely. The poorer people, of course, had a visibly harder life. We were aware of the differences in lifestyles, and were therefore highly focused on enhancing our life chances each generation. Intra-generational changes would, of course, be difficult, unless one's fate permitted. Some were fortunate in this regard.

There were some interesting differences in social behaviour at the lower income levels. Indian men and women would lift their sarongs, saris or veshtis to squat, a little off a roadside, to relieve themselves. I have never seen Chinese behave like that. Perhaps it was because they wore the ubiquitous black 'pyjama' pants (slacks). The Chinese would, however. spit everywhere – to clear the phlegm from their throats. The Indians might hawk, to clear their throats, but rarely spit. However, those who chewed the betel leaf with areca nut and a touch of lime would be forever spitting red fluid. Chewing betel with areca may have had something to do with assuaging hunger.

At home, dinner was usually after eight pm. By that time, we had finished our homework. A bath, a change of clothes, prayer (for one must be clean and be cleanly dressed for prayer), and then dinner followed. Dinner, like weekend lunches, included a tiny amount of fish or meat, and up to three vegetables. The main part of the meal was rice, a lot of it. Hunger was thus always assuaged. Growing muscles with strength was problematic. I could not pull myself up on the crossbar of soccer goalposts ever, though I had enough energy to run on the soccer field for an hour or more. Apart from the rich, this is how everyone lived.

The food was always cooked afresh, since refrigerators were unknown. Weekday dinner time, and weekend mealtimes, were family gathering times. We had relaxed meals, with quiet chatter. Our table manners were controlled by the swift use of the rice ladle, which always seemed to be close to my mother's left hand. The right hand was used by us to mix the various dishes on our plate. That is, we ate with our right hand. In doing so, we had to ensure that the palm was untouched by the food. The food was also not to extend beyond the knuckles.

With meals, there was a certain ritual. This was intended to enhance the digestive process. Stage one of a meal was rice with a very small serving of up to three vegetables. Stage two was rice with a lot of gravy, based on the first pressing of the grated flesh of a coconut. It was hot with chili, and would include a few small pieces of meat or fish. Or it could be vegetarian. The third stage was rice with pepper-water or _sothi,_ a liquid based on a second (and weaker) pressing of grated coconut. The latter would have a large quantity of turmeric, as well as sliced onion and cut chili. That is, stage three was an aid to digestion.

Interestingly, a modern Anglo-Australian herbalist prescribes a turmeric-based product in tablet form to reduce inflammation of the bowel. All the family's dishes are highly spiced. Yoga teachers explain that the spices are essentially aids to digestion. They also reject the idea of eating raw vegetables, stating that good digestion requires all vegetables to be softened by some cooking.

The poorest Indians, especially the labourers, do not have the luxury of this tradition. They boil up all the vegetables available, together with lentils, into one highly spiced dish, with a lot of gravy. This is then poured liberally over a pile of rice. I was told that those who tapped the palm trees to obtain an alcoholic drink called toddy, often assuaged their hunger through their consumption of this inexpensive drink. Toddy is the fermented sap from the shoot of the palm tree. It is collected in little pots. The tapper shins his way up the very tall tree with incredible skill and strength. The looped rope between his feet help him to place his feet on the side of the palm, with some security.

The richer vegetarian Indians, such as the money lenders, could afford to pour a lot of ghee (clarified butter, used also by the Brahmin priests in their rituals) over their rice and curry. My uncles used to joke that these _chettiars_ hang a piece of dried salted aromatic fish over their meals to enhance their enjoyment of their spartan meal, whilst remaining vegetarian!

Naturally, there is a lot of noisy burping after each meal, social class making little difference. This was accepted as a normal phenomenon. No fluids were consumed during a meal. This results in many a modernised Ceylonese not eating whilst he consumes alcohol. Once he commences a meal, he does not drink. The Westernised fellows, however, now enjoy a wine or two with their meals. What would the gurus say about that?

Another feature of the traditional meal is the sweet dish at the end. This does provide an offset to the heat and spice of the preceding dishes.

After dinner, we children might offer a grain of rice impaled on a slim twig to the lizard which had been hiding behind a picture frame. Should we, by mistake, touch its tail, the tail would drop off, much to our consternation. That was one of the mysteries of our simple life. Incidentally, there were no overhead fans, telephones or other equipment taken for granted by my children's generation. Modernity, based on capitalism, had not yet arrived for us.

Before modernity (and the Japanese Occupation) overtook us, we were subjected to certain practices. Some were superstitions, others taboos. This is said only with hindsight. I remember some of the superstitions. Were a lizard to sound a call during a serious discussion or when a major decision was being made (there were lizards all over the house hiding behind picture frames and wall hangings) its significance was carefully checked. The womenfolk would consult a book (I think that it was an annual production from India), based on the cardinal (compass) points of the lizard's location when it called. I do not know how this process of divination commenced or ranked against that of the "I Ching".

In truth, more reliable guidance was often provided by seers, irrespective of ethnicity. Sighting the new moon on its first appearance was deemed to be auspicious. How did these superstitions originate? Whilst Goethe said that "Superstition is the poetry of life," Dean W.R.Inge said "Superstition is the mysticism of the materialist."

The most sensitive of the taboos was to accidentally touch a book with a foot. Were this to happen, one touched the book with one's right hand, and then one's breast as an apology. Books represented learning. Disallowed strongly was walking under someone's outstretched arm. The arm had to be lowered before one went past. Pointing to another person with one's foot, as might happen when one is seated, was not acceptable. The sole of one's foot was never to be exposed to another when one is seated.

One did not touch another, even as a greeting. Hands held together at chest level in prayer mode was the accepted mode of greeting. Even within the family, there was no hugging or kissing. When, after an absence of a quarter of a century, I gave all my female relatives a huge hug, I felt rigid bodies. That has now changed – but I might be the exception (as a foreigner). Girls and women were not to sit with their knees spread, even when their legs were covered by a garment. One did not pat a child on the crown. I expect that these taboos represented respect.

We also had a strange fear of little green frogs. Were one to appear through the normally open door, the women would scatter, and little children would climb onto chairs, shrieking. It was up to me or my father to broom it out. Spiders, centipedes, millipedes and scorpions were similarly feared and got rid of, except these (unlike the frog) were killed. What did small green frogs represent in the history of a people who had been living in dusty terrain?

Health treatments were always a major problem. Traditional herbal treatments were our mainstay. Based on advice from some person or other who was accepted by my family as knowledgeable, I would collect certain flowers or leaves for my mother to boil as a curative. From time to time, I would collect an elderly Indian lady from a village on the way to town. After a long walk to our home, she would guide my mother in preparing some remedy. The taste of such treatments were so terrible that we would all avoid being unwell if we could. Often, the treatment was obviously ineffective. For example, chewing a burnt clove of garlic never helped my toothache. Our Japanese dentist was kept busy, because we suffered toothaches often. Our diet must surely have been deficient.

Yet; we brushed our teeth each morning, using tooth brushes, and rinsed out our mouths after each meal. Some of the more conservative men would follow traditional practices in cleaning their teeth. They would create a tooth brush from a twig from an appropriate shrub, by chewing one end into a usable brush form. Others used crushed charcoal, sometimes mixed with crushed coarse salt. This was applied by finger. We also scraped our tongues with our finger nails. In contrast, the Chinese used metal scrapers, either flat strips or spoon-shaped.

Fever led us to the government hospital. After a long wait, we would return with a coloured mixture with an awful taste. I suspect that we got better when nature said so. Aspirin was more helpful. It was also plentiful (another British success). We did not anticipate that the agency of health treatments would shift from the medicine man or woman to the modern doctor, and subsequently to the pharmaceutical companies, within a single generation. Regrettably, we have now reached the state that Plato probably had in mind when he said "Attention to health is the greatest hindrance to life."

Once a month, we children were 'purged' with castor oil. I think that it was a dastardly practice introduced by those clever marketing men from Britain. I do not remember any adult so treated. After the war, the castor oil was replaced by a more horrible chemical compound, straight out of a British factory. I remember that we would be beaten until we drank it. Were we being simply westernised or more simply exploited? Did not our ancestors remain healthy into old age, up to about eighty years of age, without castor oil and its chemical replacement? Natural selection would have ensured that. It would be interesting to see if the production of children through random partnering, and saving the lives of the normally unviable, has deleterious consequences on the gene pool of humanity.

Keeping healthy required us to wash our hands before handling any food, anywhere. We learnt not to rub our eyes with fingers which might be carrying germs. Cleanliness was indeed next to godliness, but that did not prevent us from suffering from all manner of diseases, infections and infestations. Treatments were a bit problematic, as our doctors also dispensed the medicines. Some of the medications might also be traditional treatments. But, we would not know which was which. We would take home a few tablets with no manufacturer's label. Fortunately, we had a friend working as a pharmacy dispenser in a government hospital. Like the modern pharmaceutical company sales representative handing out samples through our doctors, our friend would occasionally bring home samples of medication which might help.

The township of KL was well designed, with the centre a marvel of architecture. The railway station, post office (where my father worked) and other Government offices were a successful blend of universal Muslim and colonial British styles, suited to the tropics. These buildings have now reached heritage status. This is not surprising, as Muslim architecture is simply beautiful. KL was a nice town to live in.

The distances between our home and services were not large. A nearby row of shops provided not only foodstuffs and condiments, but also had some clothing and, surprisingly, the services of an Indian goldsmith. Sitting on the ground on a mat or on a very low stool, he would make pieces of jewelry to order for Indian and Ceylonese customers. These used gold jewelry as a form of saving or as an ostentatious display of relative wealth. Religious ceremonies associated with marriage also kept the goldsmith busy.

Cunningly, in modern Singapore, somehow Chinese vendors of gold jewelry have inserted themselves into the rows of shops in the Indian sector of the city. There, tourists from the Indian sub-continent can now indulge in one-stop shopping. But, does not this presentation of a multi-ethnic society diminish the tourist-attracting value of significant locales within a city being culturally Arab, Indian or some other ethnicity?

Fresh meat, vegetables and fish were sold by vendors who sought our attention by ringing their cycle bells. It was a marvel that they could keep their fish and meat so fresh just with blocks of ice in the heat of the day. Otherwise, there was a large market, where I practiced the art of identifying fish and meat which was not 100% fresh. If a pressed finger on a fish left a depression for a second or so, it was deemed too stale for our dinner table. Handling the fish or meat was possible as they were exposed on tables packed with ice blocks. Colour was the usual test for meat. Frozen meat (mutton) came in postwar from Australia. No test of freshness was then available. I learnt that the best shark flesh came from a white-bellied beast no longer than about five feet. Fish roe was a delicacy (to be curried) which I was periodically required to seek. Occasionally, we were able to get wild boar meat. It would be very tough. When curried, the whole family ate it!

Above our local shops, there was a club room rented by my father and his compatriots to play cards. Alcohol was not part of the scene. At weekends, however, from the road I could occasionally see men asleep in another upstairs room. My father said that it was an opium den and that the rickshaw pullers were regular users. Smoking opium was not a crime. How could it be when it was the British who forced that habit onto the people of China and fought a war there to continue this nefarious trade. Apparently, the East India Company, the precursor to the British Raj, granted itself the monopoly on growing opium in India, and its trade. My elders pointed out that company officials and, later, officers appointed by the British government grew rich somewhat rapidly, suggesting that many of the great homes of Britain had been financed through such practices.

My father, the cynic, thought that a few knighthoods might also have been acquired by such means, apart from piracy on the high seas. It would seem that stealing from the Spaniards what they had stolen from the Aztecs and Incas was a rewardable occupation for the British, as was the looting of the countries they took over. Such looting by the maritime nations of Europe in the second half of the last millennium would have funded the development of the economies of Europe, including their trading and colonising forays all over the world.

Surrounding the township of about a third of a million people were the kampongs of Malays, from the nearest of which I would occasionally buy fruit. There were also the Chinese market gardens, some of whose output of vegetables would be bought by my mother as the gardeners took their output to the distant market. They either cycled past with a heavy load, or walked (staggered, might be a more appropriate description), carrying two heavy baskets slung from a pole resting on a shoulder. Casual observation suggested to me that an easier lifestyle had been achieved by the Malays. They took a more relaxed approach to the need to eke out an existence, through subsistence farming. Perhaps my ancestors had lived like that too in their farms, for it is modern man who needs to fill the day with action. Such action may be neither productive nor profitable. In contrast, the Chinese gardeners were seen to be more aggressively active, a characteristic of poor immigrants everywhere. Close scrutiny would show deep permanent indentations on the shoulders of the older market gardeners, caused by the heavy load carried for a few miles on each occasion.

The township was slightly hilly in parts, and hedged by a mountain range on the east. But, I doubt if many of the people paid any attention to the beauty of these mountains, or the lush vegetation surrounding us, or the pockets of secondary jungle interspersed wherever it could obtain a footing. The jungle is tenacious in claiming its right. Angkor Wat has provided the necessary evidence. Those parts of the township which were obviously planned had very deep drains, a commendable feature of the colonial administration. A four inch (100 mm) downpour within an hour was commonplace; yet the tarred main roads would soon be dry. One would not want to fall into one of those drains. They were about four feet in depth, and quite wide.

I do remember being entranced by the variety of colourful birds which were everywhere; but one had to go further afield to see the most beautiful kingfishers. Spectacular butterflies were seen regularly, particularly because of the flowers grown by my father. The nightjar bird, which often interfered with our sleep, was a nuisance – because it was believed that, were the bird to call regularly outside a particular home, death would come a-calling at that home soon. It was nevertheless nice to be part of nature whilst living in a suburban environment with tap water and electricity. The only part of nature I missed (except for short annual holidays) was the sea. I would yearn to live and die by the sea, a strange feeling for a young boy. I remember writing this into my school essays on a couple of occasions. I have now achieved the first part; I await the second.

Our houses were of brick, joined in the manner of modern townhouses. There was a shallow open drain separating my house from that of Joseph, the boy with the Roman Catholic welts on his backside. The drain was a hazard for children chasing one another in play. One incident I remember vividly was my youngest sister, at about four, hitting Joseph's little brother, also of the same age. He was a bit of a bully. He would push my sister into the drain from time to time. Deciding to stop this, I taught her to turn to her right, and to aim at his nose with her right fist, straight from the shoulder, whenever he reached out to push her. It took me a while to get the routine just right. One day she executed this retaliatory move, knocking the boy down. When he ran crying to his mother, he was smacked for lying. The boy's mother knew, as did mine, that our sweet little girl could not possibly be aggressive.

A lifetime later, I also taught my similarly little daughter, at about the same age, to counter the bully next door in the same way as had my sister. This mother too would not accept that the slightly built sweet little girl could be aggressive. Both girls were never pushed or attacked again.

I do remember hurting myself by tripping into the drain a few times, receiving no sympathy from those who might have shown some concern. This drain led to an open roadside ditch of appropriate depth which, thankfully, the administration kept flowing. This ditch could be somewhat odorous at times, in a township of diverse ethnic cuisines, and a popular tendency for all to causally throw all manner of rubbish into it. Unfortunately, our rivers were no different. Our houses fronted the main road, which was convenient for catching the reliable daytime bus service.

The most notable feature of our bus service was a very black, tall and well-built American negro conductor. He was acne-pitted, deep-voiced, cheerful and chatty, bringing smiles to even those passengers who did not understand English. Compared to the mono-coloured, mono-cultural Australia I entered in the late 1940s with blank-faced and silent passengers on public transport, my bus was relatively noisy, being filled with chatter.

At the junction of our road, there was a small plot of grass, where a few manual rickshaws would be parked. The strength of the rickshaw pullers was amazing, but their laboured breathing going uphill and their knotted leg muscles always bothered me. Yet, our women and children needed the rickshaw service when the bus service was not available.

There were no fences offering privacy to the nether quarters of our homes; so everyone knew about everyone else's life. As there were no fences to protect each small backyard from the laneway needed by the collectors (both official and casual) of 'night soil', we were at some risk, especially at night, from thieves. Indeed, even when we had locked all the doors and windows when we went to bed (it is a wonder that we did not suffer from heat or suffocation), we could be woken up by the sounds of someone testing the locks on the windows. Turning on the light dispatched the potential thief. Our faeces represented that effective fertilizer flung with great abandon by the market gardeners over the vegetables we would all subsequently buy. I have observed this practice as I cycled past. The stench which filled my nostrils and lungs was horrible. Obviously, one did not eat any vegetables raw, ever. Every item was well cooked after careful washing.

This might explain why vegetables cooked by Indians and Ceylonese tend to be almost pulped. In my view, the Chinese are more clever with their preparation of vegetable dishes. By stir-frying on high heat, the food is hygienically safe, whilst retaining its fresh look and crunchy taste. In any event, the vegetables my family ate in an underdeveloped country were more fresh than most of the vegetables I have personally bought in Australia. However, the way the Anglo-Australians used to boil their vegetables (throwing out the water) destroyed any possible crunchiness and the nutrients they may have contained.

As for petty theft, it was endemic. Although every room in our house had strong vertical iron bars across the windows, thieves had been noticed trying to hook any item of clothing visible, using long, flexible poles. Any bicycle left unlocked would disappear in the twinkling of an eye, even if left just outside one's front door. Nothing was safe. Fountain pens carried in shirt pockets would be lifted as one fought to enter a bus (queues were unknown then) or as one walked into a crush of shoppers in a market. The risk was exacerbated by a tendency by most of the Chinese to shove and push to get everywhere first, even to get into a hospital lift before a patient being wheeled in.

In one open market in town, when one lost a pen (in those days, all pens were expensive, as Mr. Bic had not arrived on the scene), one just asked causally if one could buy a particular brand of pen, and the stolen pen would become available for a price at the end of that lane. Obviously there would be little purpose in theft without good prospects for post-theft sale. The gypsies, whom I saw operating on the road from Australia's national capital Canberra to Sydney in the 1950s might have learnt a few tricks from those Chinese lads. I mean no disrespect to our gypsies, as their nomadic path from the foothills of the Himalayas may have crossed the heritage path of some of my ancestors.

There were always people either cycling or walking past on our road. Some sought work. My parents would find something for them to do, and give them some money. Others were beggars, using a coconut shell as a begging bowl. They would present themselves as unable to work if offered work. Then there were the _sunyasins_ , Hindu religious mendicants wrapped in a saffron coloured sheet, also with a coconut shell bowl. If they wanted food, they would point to mouth and midriff. My mother would then see if she had any to give. If alms giving and charity does lead to an accumulation of cosmic merit, this merit has surely been credited by the Cosmos for delivery during my parents' future lives. Yet it cannot be denied that it costs little to aid the poor.

An interesting aspect of giving food to a mendicant was that when another container was needed by a recipient, my mother would bring out a coconut shell she had retained for this purpose. The coconut flesh would have been scraped and squeezed for the milk to be used in a curry. All this reflected a long-standing tradition of not contaminating the family's crockery and drinking vessels with the lips of strangers. Indeed, my Brahmin fellow student, using a brass tumbler in his own home, would not allow his own lips to touch the tumbler; instead, he would pour the drink into his mouth! Yet, I am sure that his family's food plates were shared. In this context, the use of the leaves of the banana plant as plates in Indian eating houses, or by families feeding a number of people at weddings and funeral ceremonies, avoided any risk of contamination. Our use of ladles to transfer food from serving dishes to individual plates also avoids the risks associated with the use of chopsticks by diners. Customarily, individuals would transfer food from a serving dish to their bowls, then to their mouths, and back to the serving dish, using their chopsticks.

My home had a tile roof and a rough concrete floor. With the traditional emphasis on saving, there were no floor coverings. It might also have been too hot for such coverings. The furniture was sparse and simple, with a table in the centre of the front room to hold the ubiquitous tea and cakes or for study. And I do remember an Anglo-Aussie student with a sour plum in mouth accent from a private school asking me, in my first year in Australia, whether we used any furniture or lived in proper houses. I suspect that he was my first racist. Our guests were automatically served tea and cakes, and they were expected to partake a little of each, even if only as a matter of courtesy. Once invited to enter our home (not everyone was), both hospitality by the host and acceptance by the guest were almost automatic.

How different it was in Australia when, even in the late 1980s, I was joined outside the house, with the screen door carefully closed behind him, by my boss and, in another instance, by a volunteer colleague in civil society when I called. I was doing them a favour. To each, the home was obviously a sacred site, not to be defiled by a visitor, even one to whom one is currently indebted. Sadly, there was a report of a Malaysian immigrant to Australia who, in the 1990s, had invited a close colleague to visit him. When offered the traditional drink and a cake by his foreign host, the Anglo-Australian had courteously replied "No, thank you". At that, the Malaysian angrily told his colleague to leave, as his hospitality had been insulted. This was one of the unfortunate consequences of the Australian government's multicultural policy in the last quarter of the twentieth century. This encouraged ethnic communities to retain their cultural practices. I thought the host to be inordinately rude, and not reflective of the tolerance normally displayed by Malaysians.

Culture is a strange beast. With my family, casual workers sat on the step outside the home to eat. Tradesmen would sit at the dining table on the verandah. Those outside would use coconut shells; those on the verandah would share those of our utensils reserved for this purpose. Only close friends and relatives entered the sitting room, and to share our utensils. Class was clearly a divider. But, I was never sure whether caste distinctions were implicated, even if not overtly applied. Of course, the other party may behave as if they were of a lower status, reflecting an unchallenged tradition of caste distinctions. Indian workers were inclined to do this.

There were two bedrooms in our house, each big enough to take a double bed as well as a single bed. My parents' bed must have been large, for I remember that I have slept at their feet, separated from them by a cylindrical pillow. I must have been very young indeed to fit into that space, and we probably had visitors. One end of the open verandah beyond the bedrooms led to that lockable food store room. The verandah offered a safe site for watching the heavy rains, especially the monsoon rains. Our trees would be bent by the gusts of strong wind. The thunder and lightning represented a cosmic orchestral display - until one afternoon, when a fireball did the rounds of the three sides of our courtyard, missing my father's nose and mine by a couple of inches.

Fireballs were not sighted frequently. But I do remember the one which traversed the length of the cricket pitch, just above the head of the wicket-keeper, the two batsmen and the bowler. Because the rain was so slight, and could be expected to be over soon, the game had been continued. Scrambling into the clubhouse in panic after the danger was over was a wasted effort.

The other end of the verandah led to the kitchen, and then to a bathroom, followed by the 'throne room'. An outside tap, with a concrete floor surround, was used for washing anything and everything. The spice-grinding stone was just outside the door of the kitchen, visible from the laneway, but was never stolen. A dining table was sited _en route_ to the kitchen. The L-shaped verandah and the servant's room on the other side of the kitchen, created a court yard adjacent to the dining table. From there, we could, if we wished, wave to Joseph's family during meal times.

We did have servants from time to time. One was a Chinese _amah,_ always dressed in black. We spoke Malay to her. But, she cooked Ceylonese meals. The eldest of my sisters and I remember her kindness to us. Whenever we were served French-beans, we would slide them surreptitiously under each plate on the other side of the normally eagle-eyed commander of the dinner table. The beans would somehow be removed by the servant without anyone being aware of her marvellous sleight of hand.

Other servants were teenagers. I remember two of them. They were taken on by arrangement with their parents who, I think, were rubber tappers. We were to prepare the youths for urban life. Of the two, Francis was memorable. (Yes, we were tolerant of all religions.) He was a wonderful story teller. When our parents left him in charge on some evenings, he would entrance us and, on some occasions, terrify us into a stupefied silence, with his narratives. I hope he found a suitable outlet for that great skill in later life.

There was no laundry room. As the open concrete washing area was used only to wash cooking pots and crockery, etc, our clothing would be washed by hand, with a lot of bashing of the clothes, on the concrete floor of the bathroom by a servant or a casual dhobi (laundry) woman. Interestingly, a cheap cake of Chinese soap was used for washing both clothes and pots. The pot scrubber was a piece of the fibrous outer covering of a coconut. It was very effective and cheap. As coconut milk for curry was extracted daily by breaking open a coconut each day, there was also plenty of scrubbing material. Itinerant workers would scrub our drains periodically with this material.

In the bathroom, there was a forty gallon drum to hold the bath water. In recent years, in modern homes, a built-in brick and tile tank, of near-equivalent volume, can be found. Traditionally, as was done at well-heads in the homeland farms, a bath involved pouring water onto oneself, soaping the body with a cake of soap, and rinsing off. It was, as a consequence, a water saving process too. Once a week, we followed tradition by having an oil bath. Warm oil was rubbed into the scalp and, after an hour or so, washed off by using a boiled soapy vegetable product. There were no hair conditioners used. Were they available? These were presumably adopted by the western world after manufacturers of hair shampoos had cleverly ensured that no natural oils would be left on the scalp or hair. That is, conditioners replaced the oils that should have been left behind.

In any event, south east and south Asian women and girls dressed their hair with a tiny touch of an appropriate vegetable oil. This results in glossy hair which was contained in a bun at the neck by women, or plaited into pigtails by girls. This treatment does not make the hair or the scalp greasy either. In fact, the hair on Asians looks to me to be far healthier than the hair on Westerners using manufactured hair dressing. My views on hair treatments by Western women were formed when I assisted in perming the hair of my landlady. At that time, I was also taught how to wash dishes after dinner, dry up the dishes and cutlery two at a time, and to make ice cream. I was being 'house-broken' Aussie style. Significantly, soon after the Chinese women had taken to modern hair treatments, including perming their hair, some of the older women showed damage to their scalps Modernisation was not always a benefit.

Westerners may also have noticed that very few grey hairs are visible on the heads of those Asians whose skin suggests a more mature, that is, older person. This is because they dye their hair, right up to the time they meet their Maker; at least, most do. It is a vegetable dye, which does no damage, and results in the hair looking untouched by synthetic chemicals, or even by age.

I had noticed over the years a strange phenomenon among some of my older relatives. With the slightest drizzle, which in Australia would be ignored by one and all, they would protect their head with some fabric where an umbrella is not readily available. We youngsters were exhorted strongly to keep out of the rain. It was as if our elders feared the onset of some illness caused by the drizzle. Presumably, that was why my mother would not allow me to use any water to dress my hair more easily. Had there been a disaster way back in history when the rain had brought pestilence? How bad could it have been to have left such a significant impact? When did that happen? How could it have occurred? No one knew.

This practice and its underlying fear surely had to go. For, while I was not allowed in the rain, I saw south Indian boys my age, most probably Hindu, from very poor families, having a wonderful time in the wet, especially in the puddles. How kids and pups love puddles! Anyway, I remember a day when my cousin Bala and I were in the sea during one of our school holidays. We were protected from both the relatively flat sea in the Straits of Malacca and sea-borne carnivores by a strong fence in the sea. In our safety, we had not observed a heavy cloud moving over us. Suddenly, as happens in the tropics, the cloud opened up, and we were pelted by huge and heavy drops which hurt our heads. The only way to minimize the pain was to keep ducking our heads under the water until the shower passed. Naturally, we did not tell our parents about our experience.

Later, in my early days in Melbourne in the late 1940s, after a hard and muddy game of hockey in the middle of winter, I would have a cold shower. There was no hot water anyway. In fact, after almost sixty years of life in Australia, I still conclude my warm shower with a few seconds of a blast of cold water. If nothing else, it tightens the scrotum, driving off any inclination to rise above one's station.

As for our religious faith, we were staunch temple-attending Hindus, with a prayer space in a corner of one of the rooms shielded by a curtain. In that space was a table holding the requisite paraphernalia: oil lamps; holders for flowers, camphor and incense sticks; and a rose water sprinkler. The two walls displayed pictures of our favourite gods, who were accepted undeniably as only manifestations of the one and only God, our Creator. Whereas the God of the Jewish people is un-nameable, our God has a million names, and appears in many forms. Whilst held to be a universal god, he is said to be 'unknowable' until he is 'realised' through meditation. As Hindus, we could accept and subsume the gods of every other religion or faith. For, religious faith is "God felt by the heart, not by the reason" (as said by Pascal, a few centuries ago).

The innate simplicity of our faith is yet capable of intuiting the complexity of the Cosmos. The teachings of the Upanishads, the highest metaphysics of Hinduism, offers us a vision of Reality, which is way beyond the guidance presented to mankind by the great religious leaders of history, whether part god or all human. Yet, day-by-day, we felt that we needed both the religious rituals and the lessons about appropriate conduct relating to God, the gurus, and one's fellow man, in order to survive the uncertainties and intransigence of existence. Whilst prayer might never elicit grants from an interventionist god, it certainly assists us to cope with the travails of life.

We were Shaivites, followers of the god Shiva. We prayed to the goddess Saraswathi for success in learning and in achieving musical skills, to the goddess Lakshmi for material success and in accumulating wealth, and to the god Pilleyar (that is, Ganesha the elephant god) for anything and everything, especially for removing obstacles in our lives. Looking back, prayer seemed to involve asking for something. Did we ever thank God during our prayers for what we had? Since we did say 'Thank God' often in conversation, perhaps we were adequately grateful. The family prayed, often separately, every evening before dinner, which was about eight to nine pm. Strangely, we were not told or shown how to pray. We went to the Pilleyar temple on religious and other auspicious days. I, the designated chariot for the family's future success, was sent every week, usually on Friday. This was the day for celebrating our faith with a vegetarian diet.

I was indeed becoming holy very fast. I was not aware of any other Hindu boy of my age attending a temple, not even the Brahmin boy in my class. My family wanted me to pray in this manner, in spite of knowing, through our beliefs, that Destiny will out (the title of my first book). What must be, will be, no matter how much we pray, or how many coconuts we break in the temple. Indeed, a sixteenth century saying from England captures this reality rather well: "He that is born to hang shall never be drowned."

Thus, every time I prayed before him, Pilleyar must have shaken his trunk with solicitude. I can only now say this with the wisdom of hindsight, for foresight is denied almost all of us – as it should be. But then, when warned, we paid no attention – as happened later. After my one and only experience with foresight (in a dream), I do not want to see the future

When I attended the small open-air Pilleyar temple, I would take off my sandals near the steps without fear of theft. I would wash my feet and, occasionally, break a coconut or two (these were for sale) with fervour and a prayer. I would circumambulate the small building holding the stone statue of Pilleyar, stopping at each of the three sides to pay homage to the small figures of gods on display in appropriate niches. For this homage, I could buy garlands of flowers and place them appropriately. There was a small concrete bull on a plinth on one side which was also garlanded. I do not remember that we paid much attention to it. Our prayerful posture would, of course, have encompassed the bull. Its significance seems to lie way back in history, perhaps to the Age of Taurus. Then, all of civilised mankind may have paid obeisance to the bull. When was that age? Did anything cataclysmic occur then?

The worship of the bull by the Hindus and apparently the peoples of Egypt, Mycenae, Israel and the rest of the Middle East has, however, been claimed by some to have arisen from the initial appearance of the comet (now planet) Venus. With its coma. (a nebulous envelope surrounding the nucleus of the comet) likened to hair, it apparently gave the impression of the head of a bull. It has been further claimed that this comet, by passing too close to Earth, caused a major cosmic catastrophe for mankind – the second last of such catastrophes. At about 1500BC, this event has been claimed authoritatively to have caused fantastic convulsions of Earth's crust. The convulsions triggered powerful volcanic eruptions and massive inundations by sea. These may have caused the demise of that famed Indus Valley civilization, and ruined or devastated much of Egypt, the lands of the Fertile Crescent, Mesopotamia, Asia Minor, the Caucasus, and Persia. This event was also said to coincide with the claimed biblical exodus from Egypt.

The initial very close approach of two electrically charged globes, Earth and the comet, are reported to have produced trumpet-like sounds. I therefore wonder whether the conch shells blown in Hindu temples during some ceremonies (as well as by other peoples, particularly in the Pacific) reflect what might have been a widespread historical event.

At the appointed hour, the big resounding bell at the entrance to the temple is rung to alert those within and without that the priest is about to commence his _puja_ , his ritual. This can bring a couple of Chinese to the entrance, but they will not enter. They pray where they stand. It was good to see that, as my father pointed out, our God is a universal god. Chanting in Sanscrit, which no one present understands, and probably does not want to, the priest (always described as a Brahmin) first bathes the statue in milk. This milk is collected and served to us at the end of the puja. During the puja, after the statue has been garlanded, we remain on our feet, with our hands in the posture of prayer, and pray. It is not always possible to see the ceremony, because of the narrow doorway into the inner sanctum when there is a large group praying. But that does not matter. Do not other priesthoods also restrict access to the room occupied by representations of God? Neither does it matter if it rains. At the end of the puja, the priest offers us the milk saved from the god's ablutions.

The equivalent of a small teaspoon of the milk is poured into our cupped hands, with the right hand uppermost. Most of the milk is sipped and the mere leftover fraction is sprinkled by us over our respective heads in a smooth movement from forehead to crown. I was never told what that meant. One learns to do this, and other prayerful gestures, purely by observation.

Such a sight can also be seen in Bali. The Hindu Balinese continue to display the traditions introduced to them by Indians from about the ninth century. When I sipped and sprinkled in the approved fashion at one of their temples, in the company of my Balinese Brahmin guide (whose ancestors, he said, had arrived in the ninth century), my fellow travellers, all Westerners, expressed amazement at the synchronous display of ancient tradition by both foreign visitor and local host. Their consternation at my acceptance in my cupped hands, before entering the temple, of a liquid which had been neither boiled nor bottled, was loud. Well, such is faith. I experienced no adverse consequences.

Our prayer in the temple, as at home, is in silence. It is similar to the Christian Taize service. This is a meditative service, accompanied by some chanting, developed by French priests. With us, there are no songs, readings or sermons. It is very much a one-to-one affair. The form of prayer might also include the following by some (usually the elderly): tapping one's temples with one's knuckles a few times; crossing one's arms and pulling the lobes of one's ears a few times; prostrating oneself in the manner of one doing push-ups for exercise; and bowing again and again towards the statue with the hands in prayer. These practices were followed by only a few. Occasionally, we would observe someone obviously in a trance, virtually bouncing up and down. A close family friend would jump thus right around the floor, finally collapsing. We left her alone until she recovered. She was never injured.

As an inquisitive boy, I used to wonder; did our lives improve as a result of prayer? On reflection, I realize that our dedication to prayer might have prevented matters from getting worse. In any event, I felt better for the effort. Yet, I do remember that, some years later, I shook my puny fist in the direction of the sky, shouting "To hell with you!" I thought I had good reason for doing that.

The priest's performance is impersonal, in that we have nothing to say to each other. We do not touch each other, we do not talk to him, and we do not pay him for his temple services. When we obtain the services of an appropriate priest for a wedding or a funeral, then he is paid. Our priests are only intermediaries between each individual and God, providing only the necessary ritual, as processes, for us to speak to God. The priest does not tell us what to do; he can only offer advice about an appropriate ceremony. If his advice is accepted, what he does as ritual is his business. A faith which does not permit an authoritarian priest, does not have any hierarchy in fancy dress, or a Good Book with which one might be thumped, and which allows all manner of non-binding philosophical interpretations, is conducive to, and consistent with, personal freedom, and places responsibility to God and fellow humans on the adherent. Perhaps this is true democracy.

At home, before the war changed ever so many of our religio-cultural practices (or was it material progress that was the cause?), I can remember our courtyard being decorated occasionally for some religious ceremony. A large pattern was created on the ground mainly by rectangular lines through the use of a red powder. At other times, it might be rice flour. The significance of these patterns? We were not told. Did my parents know? I suspect not. Then, who drew these up? Usually, some knowledgeable layman, accepted as an authority by his community. Without such respected elders who have no authority except by acceptance, many a traditional ceremony will no doubt disappear. As it is, some things were done without anyone understanding why. Whilst some cultural practices might be explained by some form of logic or faith, others seem to me to be quite mysterious.

Strangely, there still is a great insistence by many in upholding many traditional practices. Modernisation and education have limited impact on these people. For instance, a funeral has to take place on the third day after death, On the thirtieth day, the ceremony for the disposal of the ashes of the dead person to the sea is conducted. Because many a son now lives or is studying overseas, this date has been brought forward to the sixteenth. Who decides these matters? Weddings require the participation of a goldsmith to prepare the gold chain that binds the couple. Yet, modernity has led the younger generation to divorces. Was it the exhortations of the feminists of yore in the Western world about the right of women to decide their future, or the demonstration effect of moral flexibility displayed on the tv, or something in the water, which has led to the easy breakdown of an age-old tradition? Are the planets or other cosmic forces involved in such changes?

Further, for a wedding, banana plant trunks are tied to entrance gates, and mango tree leaves are strung across the entrance doorway. I could find no explanation. My cynical view is that this is a weak attempt to replicate an ancestral village, with the marriage ceremony conducted under the ubiquitous mango trees, with the equally ubiquitous banana plant surrounding the site.

Not surprisingly, we had a small clump of banana plants in our backyard. We also had a guava tree in the courtyard, which provided some shade to the dining table. The guava fruit then was small, had a large core of seed, and was tasty. Many years later, the fruit became large through scientific processes, with a reduced proportion of seed, and was relatively tasteless. Such progress has also affected Australia, to the point that one is lucky to find fruit, especially stone fruit, that is reliably tasty, in spite of looking attractive. We also had a coconut palm, below which one would walk very carefully. A falling coconut can do a lot of damage to a human head, as we once found at our favourite beachside. The lesson? Never sit under a coconut palm. The palm, in spite of its shallow roots, would bend to about 45 degrees when the monsoon wind hit it, but without it being disrooted. It is amazingly strong. The banana plants replaced themselves after fruiting. We would have a ripening bunch cut and stored, with a heavy hessian bag covering it. Whether the bananas were home-grown or bought, there was always a hand on a shelf on the verandah. We children could help ourselves freely.

The innermost core of the tail of a home-grown bunch of bananas, that is, the end of the flower, has purple-coloured leaves as a sheath. Occasionally, this core would be finely sliced, fried and eaten. I remember it being tasty. The leaves of the banana plant were traditionally used on religious and ceremonial occasions as plates. No washing up is thereby involved. Slices of the outer sheath of the stem of the plant were used to hold burning camphor, both at home and in a temple for religious ceremonies or festivals. I presume that this was a matter of being tidy. I remember dimly that the moist innermost core of the trunk of the banana plant was also occasionally diced finely and fried, again with spices. I suspect that such dishes reflected a nostalgia kick for my parents. I did wonder whether there was anything of a vegetable nature that our ancestors did not attempt to convert to edible food. But then, I realized equally well how people living off the land had to survive.

Thinking about such matters, I remember a deep well in my step-grandmother's home. I remember being bathed on the concrete surround with water drawn up somewhat laboriously, and not being allowed to go near the edge. However, I did manage to get a look into the well one day. And I wondered how it was dug out, and how the sides were prevented from crumbling into the water. The response I received made it clear that I must have been the only silly kid to pester his parents with questions like that. I received then, and evermore, the standard answer to questions like that: "Don't worry about it. Study, study, what you are doing at school".

What did I study at my English language school? By the beginning of the war, at my primary school, I had learnt a lot more of the core subjects of English and Maths than did my children in the early 1970s in Australia. They, in turn learnt a lot more than their children have at a comparable age. We had to master tough questions in mental arithmetic, useful later for problem solving. We learnt about grammar and punctuation, equally useful in adult life. Memorising multiplication tables and the spelling of many, many words rounded us out for life. I also learnt book-binding, how to make raffia mats and cane baskets, and how to shape clay! Starting at age seven at that school perhaps helped the learning process. My two years at the vernacular school might also have given me a good start at my English school.

What we learned in the English school in five years, in five half-days each week, in a foreign language, was surely impressive, as we naturally spoke our mother tongue at home. At the end of our schooling, we would be well educated in the basics of knowledge, and trained to become well-rounded personalities. But, we did have to put up with strange characters like Raleigh, Loyola, St. Francis, Drake, _et al,_ whose exploits were of no relevance to us. We learned about European history and geography, but nothing about our region and our peoples. The process was, however, very efficient. In time, this British education program would produce professionals and academics, as well as an educated population. I guess good educators throughout the world come out of the same mould; I have sisters, cousins, and a daughter to prove my claim.

At school, I had a cousin a year ahead of me, who was part Chinese. His father, another uncle of mine, used to visit our home, especially when his brothers were also there. But his wife and children did not. I was the only one who visited my uncle's home, which was out of town. As it was in a lower income Chinese district, my uncle had a very high chain-wire fence and very fierce-sounding German Shepherd (then referred to as Alsation) dogs for protection. I felt that the isolation of my aunt was unfair. As another family friend had also been isolated in a similar way, it was obvious that racial or ethnic tolerance was not extended within families. Whilst I was prepared to accept language differences as a potential deterrent to cross-ethnic marriage, I felt that good will and acceptance were really all that was required. The 'them and us' approach of tribalism would, however, remain with us for another generation.

Today, my extended genetic family has Australian, English, Chinese, Burmese, Malay and Indian blood. This glorious admixture was achieved through marriage, disregarding even differences in religion. And so it should be. More distant blood relatives have German and American 'Red' Indian genes. Genetically, no one is pure. There are no chosen people.

In spite of the influence of tribalism, community relations were good in those early times. Although ill-educated Chinese referred to all others as foreign devils, with black devils the appellation applying to us darker fellows, there was co-operation and courtesy when necessary. The more sensitive Chinese shop keepers learnt to place their left palm below the right elbow when giving change or passing purchased goods to an Indian customer. No one of any ethnicity ever handed anything over or accepted anything with the left hand. Either through education or lessons learnt through shared adversity, a sense of shared humanity began to evolve. Yet, like the poor, it can be expected that the ignorant will always be with us.

What was impressive, in hindsight, was the religious tolerance that was evident. Although there was a great diversity of religions practiced, there was no tension between the faiths. In contrast, there was so much bitter religious prejudice in Australia when I first arrived (in the late 1940s); a lot of is now concealed. To us, religion is a private matter. This is as it should be. In modern Malaysia and Singapore, it still is. Whilst the government in Malaysia may now insist on certain public behaviour by Muslims, particularly the Malays, the other faiths go about their own way. They do not flaunt their religions. The odd exception might be an Indian whose ancestor was converted to Roman Catholicism. Prejudice was not, and is not, preached or propagated in these nations. Until only recently has this practice ceased in Australia.

So, when I grew up, we took no notice of religious differences. We did not pay attention to the fact that some of our Christian friends were Baptist, others were Roman Catholics, yet others were Church of England. Our Christian friends were no different from those of other faiths or sects. Indeed, I used to play Christmas carols for an Indian family on my violin. I believe we all accepted that we are creations of the one God, but were on different paths to Him.

Then, war overtook us. It bonded us closer, I believe. We would have realised by then that, for the independence we hoped to achieve, we would need to be one nation comprising people of diverse origins and cultures. We would also need to remind our colonial rulers what, in their conscience, they would have known: that it were better for us to rule ourselves, even if inefficiently, than for them to seek to rule us with an alleged benevolence. Our shared experience of not being free to govern ourselves might also guide us not to seek any dominance over others in the nation-to-be through a claimed relative superiority. We would travel together with hope, looking to the horizon for independence.

### Chapter 3

FORWARD IN TIME – A LIFE OF TRANSFORMATIVE CHANGE

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new

And God fulfils himself in many ways"

\- Lord Tennyson 1809-1892

A new beginning

Moving forward is normality for sentient beings. I mean, are there any beings which habitually move backwards? Indeed, are there any which go in circles (excluding some ducks in a small pond)? Does not the crab move forward even as it seemingly goes sideways?

So, at the war's end, we set out to move forward, although we did not know how far or how fast. What would the political situation be? Would the Malays allow us to be their equal, in their own country after independence? My elders were quite sure that the Malays would seek to regain dominance in government and its administration, if not in business and commerce, in what had been their land for centuries. More importantly, would the British agree to go, considering Malaya's valuable tin, rubber, palm oil and rice industries. Would it be more sensible for my family and other Ceylonese to return to Ceylon?

If that were to happen, how would the Singhalese respond to Tamil returnees to an independent Ceylon? After all, had we Tamils not done to the Singhalese (not by any mean intent) what we had also done to the Malays? That is, had we not dominated the government administration in both countries under British rule, simply by our relative competence? How would we Malaya-born children adapt to relocation? On the other hand, why would we not adapt? Or, would we prefer the multi-ethnic surrounds to which we had become accustomed? As many an immigrant into other countries has discovered, his children's wishes and needs influenced his decision to return or to stay. Where there are grandchildren born in the new home, no return will normally be possible.

The problem for any minority ethnic community is that equal opportunity may be denied them, under all manner of pretexts, by the majority. In this context, whilst the majority Muslim Malays were tolerant of us interlopers and our faiths and cultural traditions, the Buddhist priesthood of Sri Lanka had been repeatedly reported to be somewhat chauvinistic, contrary to the teachings of the Buddha. That is, they were politically active in order to maintain a hegemony by their people in what they now claim to be their land. These were the questions discussed by my family and friends, as I listened with great interest.

I noted that my maternal grandfather had previously retired to a comfortable life in the country of his birth; and that many of the Ceylon Tamils who had sent their families to safety in Ceylon at the outbreak of war were thinking of early retirement to join their families. Returning to one's homeland or country of birth would be easy were one not acculturated by one's temporary place of employment.

As for me, since I had completed only the five years of primary school, I expected to commence high school as soon as it became operational. I had little idea of the value of my two and a half years at the Technical College where, of course, I had passed the exams. But I had not bothered to find out the levels of pass. I had expected the Japanese to go soon, and did not value my learning at the college. I had even refused to learn the Japanese language – a very foolish decision! But then, wasn't I to become a doctor? In thinking thus, I had forgotten about the theoretical physics, maths and chemistry I had completed during my time at the College. Yet, in my first year there, at fourteen, I had been studying at a level equivalent to about year three of a four-year high school curriculum. Perhaps whilst I was a great observer of people and society (a future sociologist?), I was not adequately aware of the road I was on. I was just drifting, waiting for the tide to take me where it must. That, for an ordinary teenager, would surely not be unusual.

In the meanwhile, my family returned to our old home, and I re-joined them. My father returned to his old job, but was clearly not a well man. Yet, he often had to leave home at 6 am , which was normally when we woke up (except for that clever kid, who was required near exam time to wake up earlier). In the absence of public transport, my father had to walk about three miles to get to work. Whenever he felt unwell, I carried him on the back of that three-quarter sized bike. It must have been very uncomfortable for him. It certainly was not easy for me. When we came to the steep rise on the way, we both walked, and then cruised downhill for a while. He would take the bus home. Evidence of serious ill-health emerged after a while, although he sought to camouflage it.

One morning, when there was a heavy dank mist at ground level, at the rickshaw station (which was just a triangular patch of grass at the intersection), a man rose quietly in the lightening darkness as we approached him. Pulling out a revolver (a British arms drop?), he waved it at us. We both got off my bike carefully, and stopped under a weak street light shrouded in light mist. Silently, the Chinese waved the revolver at our pockets. Whilst I hung on to my bike, for I was anxious not to lose it, my father showed that his pockets were empty. This is easy with trouser pockets, but a little more difficult with a shirt pocket. Whilst I stood silently, I tried to see whether any light was being reflected by metal; that is, whether the robber was waving a wooden replica. In my concern about my bike, and in my youthful silliness, I remember considering attacking him were he to reach for the bike.

Strangely, I was not afraid, unlike my experience many decades later. Then, a brief but penetrating surge of fear did rise from somewhere in my gut, in response to having a sharp knife pressed into my side. The knife was held by a clearly nervous masked robber at the service station where I worked two nights a week for a couple of years after retirement. Yet, with the dawn gunman, somewhere else in my brain a warning sounded. The robber knew where we lived, as he would have seen us leaving our home. Common sense prevailed, especially as the gun did reflect a little light.

We were then waved off. Somewhat apprehensively we took off. I wondered whether my father was speculating about the gunman moving on to robbing my mother. It was always possible, of course, that the robber might reach the conclusion that anyone who had to start work as early as my father did would be too poor to have any possessions worth stealing. Little did the man know about my mother's collection of dowry jewelry. I remember being impressed with the collection, which was wrapped in a piece of fabric. There were semi-precious (or were they precious?) stones set in 22-carat gold. For us, anything under 22-carat was not real gold – as my mother pointed out to Australians with their 9-carat (occasionally 18-carat) jewelry. Although my mother would not have known about the robber, my father would have been very aware of the existence of the jewelry.

No one was, however, aware that this collection would be dissipated gradually through me, and soon, as my mother's yet unrevealed destiny would deem necessary.

On route, my father told me that he had five dollars tucked into a shoe. He had broken away from the traditional use of leather sandals, which were not ideal for long distance walking. Whereas prewar he had to wear a suit to work, then take off his coat to work under an overhead fan, he now wore a shirt with short sleeves. Normally anyone who wore more than one layer of clothing on his upper body was obviously in some sort of uniform. During their occupation of Malaya, Japanese officers were seen to wear a white shirt with the collar outside their khaki tunic.

However, both before and after the war, one of our close relatives was fond of wearing a suit at all times. It probably made him feel that, by emulating his British superiors, some of the respect that he thought was directed at the latter by the populace at large might rub off on him. He did this even when he knew how his relatives were so disparaging about white people. Why the disparagement? Because they felt that they did not receive any respect from white people.

As at the prestigious Selangor Club, clubs and hostelries restricted to white people had rules and signs which rejected somewhat rudely all Asians (then referred as Asiatics). So I was told. All waiters, servants, and other workers in the whole country, irrespective of age, tended to be addressed as "Boy". So I noted. Instructions, directions or orders were often delivered with raised voices, in case the 'boy' did not understand what was being said. Raised voices apparently made communication clearer. This also happened in Australia to the immediate postwar non-British immigrants, most of whom were educated war-displaced Europeans.

Other examples of intentionally rude behaviour by colonial white people included a young engineer requiring all Asian underlings, irrespective of their maturity and competence, to address him as Sir on every occasion. A newly arrived young man, jumped into the senior position of Assistant Superintendent of Police (no whites permitted below that level), was known to shout at experienced, mature inspectors and senior inspectors. Such behaviour was apparently common even after the war.

A pleasant memory I retain is of shoving through a hedge, at 2am one night outside the Singapore Flying Club, one of these young upstarts. What was he doing in the dark with a Chinese detective in an unmarked car in the car park, well away from the building? Detectives were readily identifiable by their 'uniform' of black slacks and white short-sleeved shirt worn outside the slacks (in the fashion of the batik shirt).

This fellow may not have expected that his comfort zone was soon to be dissolved, and that he might have to return to a very much poorer life on a lean retirement pension. For, the question often asked by us was, why would a competent person with good prospects for a successful career in his own country take up a job as a colonial officer amongst people seen as inferior, and in a difficult climate? Since school children in Britain had been taught to believe that their people were teaching their colonial subjects how to govern themselves, perhaps the more simple colonial employees (as well as those in the private sector seeking to exploit their native peoples) had accepted that teaching. That is, they were all out in the wilderness just to improve the lot of the natives. Indeed, one only had to hear the way some of these people spoke in public to appreciate their ignorance.

There were, of course, major exceptions, educated and sensitive, who did appreciate the civilizations and associated cultures that the local people represented. Some of these non-conformists even 'went native' in lifestyle, adopting local clothing and language. This happened in the first stage of the rampage by the East India Company in those parts of the sub-continent they managed to control. Many acquired Asian wives or concubines. The more practical fellows, who were there just for profit or power, just seduced their servants, seeding some with seeming indifference, and leaving the children behind when they returned home. A few years later I met one of these discarded offspring. He was travelling to Australia, planning to introduce himself to his birth father and the latter's new Australian family! That meeting (confrontation?) would certainly be worth observing!

One notable 'European' (as we referred to them), however, learnt about our shared humanity in a painful way. A headmaster at the top high-school in Malaya, he had been described to me as a harsh disciplinarian, whom one would not want to approach willingly. Unfortunately for him, he had been an unwilling guest at Changi, the Japanese prisoner of war camp in Singapore. He had returned to his duties postwar, when I asked to see him. The head prefect at the school (yet another Ceylon Tamil) had insisted that I do some gardening in the school grounds, after school hours, in spite of the fact that I was recovering from an extended malarial infection lasting about four months. It is a very debilitating disease.

I found the headmaster, an Australian, courteous. He exempted me from what was a voluntary exercise, because of my obviously weakened state. When I came to understand the Australian people, I wondered what my headmaster had thought when observing the class distinctions reportedly sought to be retained by British officers during their incarceration in Changi. Both class and colour-bar discrimination were reportedly not uncommon with all white colonials and their military, wherever they were.

Rumours being what they are, at war's end, we were told about the brown babies produced by white female prisoners of war. The fathers were allegedly Indian guards at the camp. We were not told what happened to the babies. The Indians were said to have been the first of the British troops to be de-mobbed postwar, and repatriated to India. Such stories were circulated, in part, because they denigrated white people whilst, at the same time, there was sympathy for the poor inoffensive civilian women caught up by war. Human motivation is indeed complex. Another strong rumor was that disaffected Chinese, led by the communists among them, intended to disrupt the returned British administration. This they did a few years later, taking up arms whilst dispersed in the jungle and the rubber plantations.

They were not sophisticated enough to appreciate that more effective domination of Malaya and other south east Asian territories could be achieved more insidiously through financial control, as later demonstrated by a resurgent Japan. Losing its war and its ambition to create a co-prosperity sphere in east and south east Asia did not do that nation any long term harm. It would eventually be built up as 'Deputy Sheriff' of East Asia on behalf of the USA (with Australia as the 'Deputy Sheriff' for the Pacific region).

Responding to pressure from the leaders of the various communities, especially the sultans, the British conceded carefully that it would take about twenty five years before we Malayans would be ready to govern ourselves. How wonderful, said my elders. They were not into hallelujahs and similar exclamations. We, who had seemingly never known how to govern ourselves, were now to be taught to do so by bumpkins who had fallen out of the trees of thickly wooded Europe only relatively recently. At the time my elders expressed themselves so cynically yet so eloquently (I suspect these elders of mine were a lot smarter than they looked), they made it clear to their offspring that to be anti-colonial is not to be anti-British. That is, whilst we had a right, indeed an obligation, to criticise and seek to be free of the colonial interlopers, we should not turn against our fellow man in the home countries of these exploitative opportunists.

That was a timely lesson. Fight for freedom but do not be intolerant. Indeed, the most significant teaching from my father – whose destiny was not to be around to guide me when I needed him in my transition from teenager to youth – was that, within our framework of communitarian responsibility, we should value freedom, and never to bend our necks in the longer term to those who sought to sit on our heads or shoulders.

His further guidance was as follows: if some ignorant person spits at you, keep moving. Do not seek to retaliate. Do not, however, be silly enough to turn the other cheek. If someone seemingly educated denigrates or challenges our religion and associated cultural values, ask if he would please explain why his claimed faith and values are seen by him to be superior. Remember our long-established time-tested cultural heritage; we are second to none. That was most useful advice to me when I had to swim in the ugly seas of the White Australia policy. I remember very few of those who sought to change my religion, or who claimed to be on the only path to God, or to possess a superior culture, who were willing to examine the issues rationally, or even to discuss the matter. An arrogant assertion is, to ignorant persons, enough to support them on their flimsy planks of faith in the turbulent seas of life on Earth. The need for relative superiority in religious beliefs is indeed a strange aspect of mankind.

The British, in a sense quite sensibly – having regard to the long term need for the diverse ethnic communities to enjoy political equality, if not to eventually merge into one democratic Malayan people - suggested a union of all the states and settlements into a single nation. The threat to the hegemony of Malay royalty (not that they had any under British rule) killed off that proposal. A federation, with the sultans accepted as nominal (and picturesque) state rulers, was finally accepted. The sultans would elect a figure-head king from among themselves every five years. The period of preparation for self-government was subsequently reduced progressively by the British to about nine years. The structure and process of government finally achieved had regard for the yet unavoidable ethno-cultural differences and associated tribalism, within the formality of a political party-based democracy. No matter how it is concealed, tribalism is inherent in mankind, even in the developed nations.

Australia is no exception. It is therefore amusing for me to note that official Australian policy, as dictated by the US government, is to insist on human rights in countries of interest to us. The objective is Western democracy, not any other kind of democracy. This means that every adult has a vote, subject to control by party-political leaders. Many of these may be under the influence of misty figures blended into the murk created by forces playing snakes and ladders of opportunism. Under Western democracy, tribal leadership has to go. Yet, party politics in Australia is big business or religious faction driven to a large extent. That is, the 'ayatollahs' in control of these factions, both conservative and their opposite, are little different from the tribal leaders elsewhere, except that some of them might be more readily replaced.

The Malays, aided by the new structural arrangements and (later) an affirmative action policy, took back control of their country. Malaya (later Malaysia) became a Muslim nation, with Islam as the national religion and Malay ( _Bahasa Melayu)_ as the national language. Whilst affirmative action was indeed necessary (in my view) to enable the Malays to reach parity in economic and administrative viability with the other ethnic communities, it became abused. It lasted longer than intended or necessary. So declared the prominent recent Malaysian Prime Minister, Dr.Mahathir.

How did the new structural arrangements affect my community? Whilst each adult had a vote, the demographic balance between the ethnic communities was reflected in political and governmental structures, and administrative policies and entitlements. An approach both practical and sensible, I thought. Equal opportunity would not be exclusively individual-based: but then, even in the first-world nation that is Australia, available opportunity does reflect, to an unspecified degree, differences in affiliations of a religious or political nature. And the poor Australian indigene, the Aborigine, is still struggling, as is the native (Red) Indian of the USA, for equal opportunity at all levels. The preachers of human rights in the Ultra-West nations (those created by immigrants), with their emphasis on individualism, do have clay feet and ankles.

In Singapore, which had split off to become a Chinese-dominated democracy, and Malaysia, incorporating peninsular Malaya and the former British territories of Sarawak and North Borneo (in order to ensure a Muslim majority of substance), the diverse communities enjoy the freedom to practice their religions. Any attempt to convert anyone's religion is a crime. What a progressive and protective idea this is, especially against the rampaging fundamentalist proselytising Christian, whose arrogance knows no bounds. These are mainly local-born Chinese. My advice to supremacists such as these is simple: be ready to shake hands with Caluthumpians, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, and people of other allegedly inferior religions when you ascend the Celestial Abode of the Heavenly Father. To those who question that advice, I say further: God does not grant admission to His Abode on the basis of the priesthood to whom one is attached. That advice usually goes down as lightly as a lead balloon. The populace in these countries is encouraged by their governments to retain their cultural practices and their native tongues, but are regularly reminded that they are, nevertheless, in each nation, one people.

Whereas my generation of Ceylon Tamils, like that of the previous generation, had sought security in government jobs (one Ceylonese had actually reached the rank of admiral in the Malaysian navy, whilst others had reached top positions elsewhere), the next generation has sensibly gone into the professions. They are doing so well, some living in palatial homes, that they will not consider emigration. Those Asians who had migrated into Western nations for the sake of their children's education have generally suffered a relatively lower status and standard of living. This happened in Australia (except for the medical specialists). Those who were Christian and saw themselves as belonging to the world of white people (especially the Eurasians), would not have been exceptions. That is, skin colour is still pervasive, by and large, in multi-ethnic Australia.

Yet, most of the world has coloured skin, of diverse shades. Most people, except some Indians, Ceylonese, and white supremacists everywhere, do not seem to care about any differences in skin colour around them. The so-called white people are currently only about 15% of the total population of Earth. In no more than thirty years, this proportion is estimated to drop to 10%. Will anyone care? The US will become slightly coloured, mainly by the Hispanics moving in from the south. Britain is also already significantly coloured, as are the other colonial nations, through their chickens coming home to roost.

Will colour sensitivity disappear in time? Not if the Indians and Ceylonese continue to behave as if 'fair' children and wives are best. The colour of my skin in my boyhood used to bring forth repeatedly a comment that irked me. It was 'pity that it is the boy who is the fair one.' How was I to feel about that? Yet, when I married a white Anglo-Australian, there were no exclamations of joy!

How on earth did that preference for a lighter skin colour originate, and why? Some of the most beautiful of our women are very, very dark! Had our skin darkened as we moved from the north to the south over the centuries, perhaps through inter-marriage with the darker southerners as well?

Reflecting this preference for 'fair' skin, we covered our heads and faces when out in the sun. My mother, at age sixty, had skin that was smoother than that of a forty year old Anglo-Australian. I used to wear to school a khaki topee, cork-lined, because of a tendency to nose-bleed. I was not allowed to wear a straw hat like the Malays. They used to wear them at a rakish angle.

But all this was in an evolving future. A couple of years after war's end, my father's life too ended, and somewhat suddenly. That destroyed the comfort zone and financial security of the family for good.

Before that, I was placed on the first of a few steps leading to the guillotining of my intended career. Who-so-ever is to be destroyed by the gods shall be led to the false joys and exaltation of a sudden rise to success, before being cast into a bottomless pool of boiling hot water. He shall not see the road leading to that pool. He shall not know about the process of his drowning until after he has been destroyed. He shall know not why he was thus doomed. So spake the guru Arasa (that's me) after the demise of his future.

Having narrowly escaped a physical drowning during the Japanese occupation, I am sufficiently aware of the process without actually experiencing it. One hot afternoon whilst I was at the College (but then every afternoon was hot), I ran across one of my pre-war soccer pals. We cycled to a disused swimming pool (formerly exclusive to white people) some distance away, took off our shirts, and jumped into the deep end. That was very cooling. Neither of us could swim, but we did not think of that. Then, whilst my companion was sitting at the edge of the pool, I held on to a concrete ledge with one hand, with one foot on another ledge below. We talked.

Suddenly, my grip gave way and I began to sink. Without touching the floor of the pool, I rose. Then, without breaking the surface, I sank. Again, without touching the floor I rose; and without breaking the surface, I began to sink. Whilst I kept my mouth closed and held my breath, I knew that I was about to drown. So, I pushed down somehow, and just managed to feel the floor with my stretched toes. I pushed hard, and strove to break clear of the surface. This I did, gulped some air, and shouted. My companion, becoming aware at last that I was in trouble, grabbed my hair and pulled me to safety. That was it. We went our respective ways. To this day, I do not understand why I had not tried to reach out to the ledge or to the side of the pool. Why had my brain switched off during that near-disaster? To this day, I panic when my feet cannot find a firm surface in water. Because of that, to this day, I am unable to swim. And to this day, the memory of that experience is as clear as ever.

Yet,... yet, in my early twenties, I have body-surfed in water deeper than my height. Perhaps that was because there were lots of people with me and because I knew that the sea would, on each of those occasions, take me to shore. Also in that period of my life, I have relished a ride on a 'bucking bronco' of a 2000 ton and, later, a 3000 ton ship crossing the Timor Sea. The nose of the vessel would be pointed way up to the sky and then pointed way down into the deep, again and again, whilst simultaneously rolling from side to side. Few of the passengers could hold down their meals on such rides. I could. And at age sixty, I went wild-water rafting in the company of a group of youngsters, all strangers. I was the oldest customer the rafting company had ever had. Strangely, I had no fear on those occasions. Curious!

The contradictions of life were manifest in other strange ways. Before the Japanese occupation, one would need to shake out one's shoes and clothing to remove scorpions, centipedes, and millipedes. The wet floor of a bathroom was also likely to be a night-time rest-house for these, having worked their way along the outlet drain. Pockets in clothing were also checked out, as these pests seemed to be everywhere. The brick walls and concrete floor of the scout camp out of town displayed their squashed bodies, as a significant and timely warning to the boys. Mattresses were always inspected for bed bugs and set out in the sun to air. Post-occupation life, however, was remarkably free of these pests. Where had they gone? Good riddance, we said. Hopefully, they went with the Japanese.

At a Church of England girls' school, one of my sisters, the one who was to evolve into that made-to-measure matriarch, topped her Bible studies class, although she was a temple-going Hindu. I remember taking her to school on occasions on my bike. Looking back, I must have been a busy lad. Indeed, I did not have any time to indulge in our prewar hobby of stealing fruit from trees on the way home from school. The fun was in imagining that the owners of the trees cared about their fruit being deflected into our pockets. When an owner said, 'Help yourself', there was no purpose in raiding that tree anymore. There were no more visits to the kampongs to buy fruit. Temple attendance too dropped. These strange religious ceremonies which had not been explained also ceased. Why? Contrary to that Gladstone thesis, our bellies were not yet full.

The Hindu festivals, however, continued to be recognized. Deepavali, the festival of light, was a special occasion, more important than birthdays, when new clothing was received by each youngster. Small terracotta oil lamps, with cooking oil as fuel, and a piece of twisted fabric as wick, would be everywhere. If our drain was flowing, we would attempt to flow the oil lamps downstream. Chinese fireworks of all sizes were handled by the children. I enjoyed lighting the fattest cracker, and placing an empty can over it before the explosion. It was great fun for me, and none of my family or friends was ever hurt.

Thus, one and all became aware that a new era had begun. Where once some of the Ceylon Tamil community might have considered returning with the family to the homeland, now only some of the elders returned. The future of the children, as well as their children's wishes, led to decisions to stay in Malaya. Immigrant communities in other countries made comparable decisions. Private homes, bigger and better, became the norm. Overseas study for one's offspring was now considered a standard option. New perspectives were therefore formed. When change occurs, it seems to acquire a life of its own. Change seems to beget change. And the people begin, first, to accept change and, then, to look forward to future change. Where these changes are positive, in terms of benefits to the people, social and economic betterment is expected and, ultimately, availed. But that is not the destiny for everyone carried by the seas of change.

The descent to doom

Neither my family nor I (to my knowledge) had any preconception or expectations when, as soon as the British colonial administration had re-established itself, I was asked to sit for an examination. The sole test was to write a letter to the editor of the local newspaper complaining about something. I recall that my letter was concise and, I thought, clear. Those English classics had certainly left their impression on me. On the basis of that test, and perhaps my time at the Technical College, I was placed in year 3 of the four-year high school program. That was in a truncated Term 3. At the end-of-year exam, I was highly ranked in a cohort of about 120 students (my memory has slipped here). The next year, my final year at school, I came fifth at the end of Term 1, ninth in Term 2, and twenty-eighth in Term 3. Whilst this was not exactly a wheels-falling-off experience, this regression had the effect of sliding into a chasm that was not there!

I had now completed the Cambridge School Leaving Certificate with a high number of As (I cannot remember that number either). The core subjects were English, Maths, Science, History and Geography, providing an excellent educational background. I also passed Latin, which I had studied with a private tutor for six months – which was all the time I had available. I found Latin useful when meeting new words in later years. I was subsequently exempted from the matriculation exam of London University. I was thereby qualified for admission to university, presumably anywhere in the British Empire. Our school curriculum was that taught in England (an immigrant acquaintance from Scotland claims that his school education was different).

Why had my results deteriorated during my last year? I was infected with malaria for the second time early in Term 1. The first time was at the end of the Japanese occupation. I distinctly remember the liquid quinine. It was so bitter that I used to take a mouthful of unsweetened near-boiling hot coffee to dull or damage my taste buds before swallowing the quinine twice a day. I was cured reasonably soon. The second infection was said to be of a more virulent kind, capable of attacking the brain. I was seemingly cured of that quite quickly with some new medication in tablet form. I became infected yet again near the end of Term 2, or the previous infection had developed new legs. For four months, every twenty-eight days, my body coped with the cycle of very high temperatures, accompanied by shivering for a few days. This was followed by a gradual recovery. Then the fever would take over. Eventually I became free of that terrible disease.

All that time, I studied whenever I could, cycling to see my Indian tutor in Latin. Of course, I would be woken up at five am at exam time in the periods of apparent health. Did that bug me? Of course it did! But it was wiser to sleep sitting up at my books than speak up.

Because my final results did not seem to reflect my ability, I asked to repeat the year. My time-hungry mother and my compliant father did not think that was necessary! I would start my medical studies in Singapore in September, they said, although selection interviews had not been held. Could I do some other studies, eg higher maths, in the meanwhile? I was interested (by overhearing a few of my fellow students) in the relationships of mathematical equations to the real world they seemed to represent. My private wish was to become a sound (acoustic) engineer, which seemed to me to be a developing area of scientific technology. I also have a problem-solving mind, ideal for engineering. The practice of medicine (what I saw of it) has never interested me intellectually. I need to think, to solve problems. My parents would have none of that. My impression was that they saw other studies as somehow contaminating my mind. In fact, I have since noted that those of my extended family who qualified as professional people did not ever read about any other subject. Presumably, one read only to study. One studied only to obtain qualifications.

No, such studies as I talked about are not relevant for the practice of medicine, I was told. It seemed then to be the ambition of every mother in every tribe in every country to produce a doctor. Social status allied to a good income – what an enticing prospect that must be for some. So, whilst I waited and wasted time, I read educational psychology and a broad range of the other subjects. I have to know what makes things 'tick'. That is, how we think (how do we know what we know?), what makes society work the way it does (how does change infiltrate social stability?), how the Cosmos operates (what keeps a universe without a beginning or an end going?). I believe that I started asking such questions at about the age of eight.

I remember that age because it was then that I was taught by my parents that the universe is without beginning or end. What a fascinating concept. I have pondered over this from time to time and, later in life, read about it. Quaintly, modern cosmologists seem to have returned to the ancient Hindu concept of cyclical events and occurrences within an infinity of existence! Is this not akin to finding coherent patterns of stability within chaos, whether chemical, physical or even social? Or to learn about the Hindu God who, described as unknowable, is necessarily transcendent, and is yet immanent in each reincarnated human soul? Durability within variability – what a simple perception! Or, perhaps it is vice versa!

My namesake in my class, older but with a lower standard of pass in that final year at school, had more worldly-wise parents than I did. They were immigrants too. They had him repeat the last year of school. He topped the year for the whole of Malaya, went to university in the UK, and finished up professor of atomic physics there. Difference in parents, or difference in destiny?

In about May of that wasted year, my father died suddenly one evening. This was a substantive wheel-falling-off event. We knew that he was feeling unwell, with chest pains. He was sitting up in bed (lying down was not an option because of his chest pains), with the family around him after dinner one night when, suddenly, he coughed. His eyes then closed. We did not know that his soul had left his body. It might have been on its way to that recycling station awaiting us all. In panic, I cycled speedily to a nearby Chinese home, asked to use their phone (and not for the first time on behalf of my father), and rang our doctor – but it was all too late. This totally unexpected shock left us all silent. Then I rushed to get a relative living near by.

Later, we found that my father had been given two years to live by a British army doctor at the end of the Japanese occupation. He did not quite make the full two years. When we read a detailed astrological horoscope written for him early in life, we found, not unexpectedly, that the major events in his life had been correctly forecast. Such forecasts rarely specify events. They only provide a sort of climate report, highlighting prospects for illness, marriage and other major human events. That is, they provide statements of probability. How could calculations based upon the minute of birth provide such broad accuracy relating to specific individuals? They did. We all knew that. Community experience had shown us that the better astrologers had an excellent strike rate. They achieved that simply through their calculations. My father's horoscope faded away after age 45. He was 47 when he died.

The movements of the planets are certainly predictable. Their probable impacts on life on Earth are seemingly assessable by those skilled in astrology. Did not astrology grow out of the astronomy of the ancients, the earlier civilisations? Yet, whilst forecasts are generally not predictions, in my case, two astrological forecasts (that is, statements of probability) turned out to be predictions. How so? Such forecasts are, of course, not comparable to the visions, insights and received messages relating to psychic phenomena. Astrological statements are based on cold calculations, whereas reports from clairvoyants and psychics involve sentience.

In any event, my father had known his future. Yet he had continued to work, to protect his family's pension entitlements. He had been in pain. He must have been very lonely too, with only one young close blood relative - but to whom he did not apparently confide his anxieties either. At dinner one night, the family had a terribly worrying experience, when no one responded by movement or speech. My father, that rock of our existence, broke down and cried – briefly! He then calmed himself down and, in silence, we finished our meal. I know what it feels like to have the very firm rock I was standing on begin to tremble! Today, skilled medical/surgical intervention procedures might have enabled him to survive. But then, had not his end been as written in the stars?

The planning vacuum resulting from his unexpected death let loose an avalanche which damaged our family severely. I now know that this too was as written in the stars. The avalanche was triggered when my mother's destiny led her to make both unwise and unfair decisions. This ensured that she was an effective operational intermediary in the destiny of others. Thus, she played her part in the karmic destruction of my future, as well as my self-confidence and self-respect; and in the disparaging way I was to be viewed by senior members of my clan and tribal community for the rest of their lives. These consequences were ameliorated when I later found that my sisters and first cousins (we had all grown up together) understood how it had all happened. As well, others were severely hurt by some of my mother's decisions. She too would suffer grievously. It was all a major tragedy whose effects would reverberate for a very long time. And seemingly enabled by my father's demise!

Was there any purpose in asking why? What had we done? But then, I might also ask: what had those poor African, Latin American, Indian and other babies done to be born into starvation and a painful life, with perhaps early death? My sensitivity to this issue reflects, I was told, a very painful past-life experience of mine.

Ironically, the path of my destiny had been obliquely signalled to my mother and I after my father's death. But, we were unable to recognise the significance of the message brought to us by a yogi. Appearing at our door, he said he had come down from his periodic meditative sojourn in the Himalayas. A yogi, as distinct from sunyasins or religious mendicants, was rare in our experience. Had he been sent to alert us to lower our sights? To what end? If we had understood his message, would we have been able to divert the drama Destiny demanded that we dance to? Or to reach the same end in a less painful manner? So, we played our parts to perfection, and paid the price predicated.

The day after my father's demise, my aunt led some of the older female mourners in loud wailing from time to time. It seemed to be an ancient tradition of lamentation that they were following. But, my mother, ashen-faced, grieved in silence. We dumb-struck children were effectively cast adrift – so to speak. We were fed, and otherwise looked after, but I do not recall any words of solace. The men folk organized everything, including the setting up of a massive tent which covered our small front lawn, and the necessary chairs. Having a number of close relatives was a great boon. People came and went, and things that were needed to be done were done – almost by osmosis. This was clan and communal cooperation at its best.

How could a young mother with young children have coped otherwise, or known what to do? Could similar extended family and community support be found in that part of the western world created by (primarily) Anglo-Celt immigrants, such as the USA, Canada, Australia and New Zealand? Or, was it the case that, in those communities controlled by priests and rabbis, there was institutionalized help or guidance?

An important requirement was for my father's body to be washed and dressed. This was done by close male relatives behind a curtain in the courtyard. The curtain was a man's _veshti_ , the white cloth worn by men in place of a sarong or slacks on religious occasions. After he was dressed, he was laid out on a single bed in his bedroom, with his hands crossed. That was exactly how I had seen him in my dream eight days before he died! On that day, I had been sent in the middle of the night to summon a doctor urgently for my father. After the doctor's departure, a relative had taken my bed, in case of a further emergency.

As is usual in such situations, I could sleep on the rough concrete floor on a thin straw mat or on a wooden bench. Knowing that the concrete would be cold in the pre-dawn hours, I usually chose the bench. As the bench was no wider than my thin shoulders, I had to be very careful in sleep. But, I had never fallen off. That night, I dreamt about my father, seeing him laid out as he was laid out after his death. I told no one, and lived with fear infusing the fibres of my existence, until death called.

The next day was the day for cremation. It had to be on the third day. Why? After a prolonged ceremony involving a priest, and attended to by a very large body of men sitting in the tent, my father's body was taken to a crematorium in a bullock cart. It was a strangely silent procession, with me as chief mourner. At the open-air crematorium, no women are allowed. A raised concrete slab on a concrete floor took the body, under which was laid firewood. There was a roof over the slab to protect it from the rain. After another extended ceremony by the priest, the funeral pyre was lit. We had to turn our eyes away at that stage, and move away slowly. The ashes were collected the next day.

Anyone who has been to Bali and witnessed a funeral ceremony and cremation there would have seen an identical practice. At the ceremony I witnessed (as a tourist), I was intrigued to see that the Brahmin priest (a Balinese) could easily have been a relative of mine – by size, skin colour, and shape of head. His Indian genes were obvious.

I cannot remember my return home after my father's cremation. I was drowned in deep sorrow. No one had spoken to me after my father's demise other than to issue guidance about my tasks. So, I grieved alone silently until I came home. There, I had to wash my feet, face and hands before I could enter the house. It was then that I broke down and cried, thinking I was unobserved. The Indian casual we employed saw me at the tap outside the kitchen, however, and offered me sympathy. Whilst I cannot remember what he actually said, what impressed me was his kindness, and the fact that he had been so personal. Although my family did not display any traditional caste distinction or discrimination, he had always behaved as if he were of a lower status. In the normality of events, there would have been no conversation of a personal nature between this casual worker and us. I was therefore touched by his sympathy. These were the only words of sympathy I recall on the loss of my father.

My family (I cannot speak about any other family) did not display physical affection towards one another. Was it a community tradition? I therefore cannot remember ever being cuddled or even hugged. In the circumstances, my mother, my sisters and I said nothing to one another about our great and terrible loss. We simply did not articulate our sorrow; and really did not know how. My mother, however, cried in her sleep. I know, because I heard her. How then could we each achieve psychological and emotional closure, which might gradually and eventually ease us into acceptance of what had happened to us? Did we not need to talk to one another about our terrible tragedy? Did we not need to offer solace to one another? Why did we each hold our respective sorrow so privately? What was wrong with us? We did not even cry in each other's presence. I guess we carried that emotional overhang for decades; it certainly affected my studies during the next few years.

The night of the cremation, I slept on the floor (why I do not know) in the room where my father had died. My mother could not cope with being in that room. And I do know that I felt his warm and close presence. It has been claimed by some of our people that the soul of a loved one remains in our vicinity for a few days. I was grateful for that, although I would have preferred him to have been alive. Did I know intuitively how much I would need his guidance in the immediate future?

It seemed to me to be quite logical that we should have a traditional ceremony to dispatch my father's soul. This ceremony was usually held on the thirty-first day after the death. The ceremony was also to return the ashes of the material but temporal body to the Cosmos, via the sea. Why the thirty-first day? In a long ceremony involving calling upon the names of up to eighteen preceding male ancestors, the soul is dispatched (to God we believe). The eldest son – for the father (or the youngest son – for the mother) completes that part of the ceremony by testifying to the sun, with hands in the posture of prayer, that he has helped to dispatch the soul of the loved one to its proper destination.

Then the son, accompanied by his father's ashes, close male relatives, and a priest, goes to the seaside, where another extended ceremony is held. I remember travelling to the seaside in a small pre-dawn cavalcade of cars, and being inspired by the display of lightning, which covered the whole sky at the horizon, as we neared our destination. At first light, the ceremony commenced. No women are allowed in this ceremony. The process was completed when I walked into the sea, with a relative knocking a hole on the side of the terracotta urn holding my father's ashes. I then turned my back to the horizon, and threw the urn as far over my shoulders as possible. The Cosmos had now been presented with both my father's soul and his bodily remains.

What stands out is the respect shown by the living for the recently dead. The complex procedures remind us about many things. The rituals, procedure and practices link the past to the present, and thence to the future, irrespective of the changes which might be introduced from generation to generation. The ceremonies highlight the links between members of the extended family. They also reinforce the ties between human beings and the Cosmos of which they are part. They remind us that we left an ethereal collective to be a temporary part of a material collective, and that, in time, we rejoin that ethereal collective. And that we remain an integral component of that cyclical trajectory of the Cosmos (as we think we know it).

That seaside ceremony was the earthly end of a fine man, and a good and loving father and husband, with the best of ideals. I still remember him for his calm wisdom, the occasional stinging remark, the rare but powerful outbursts of anger, and his inordinate ability to trot out appropriate and timely aphorisms. One of these was 'The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on.' How apt, since his departure to that Cosmic Way Station.

This Way Station, or Recycling Port or, more correctly, our abode between earthly lives intrigues me. Having received messages from 'The Other Side' through psychic experiences (which I find both confusing and yet challenging), I wonder what happened to those who had been close to me. Are they availing themselves of the learning that we are told by some in the Western world awaits us? Are those who were close as family on Earth still together? There was a hint, through one clairvoyant, that that is not so. A claim by some Western writers that we are born on Earth in clusters is not supported by an Indian guru (with accepted status). He said that he found no such statement in his studies in Hinduism.

Since it will not be long before I join it, I wonder where this Way Station is. I speculate that it is here, but in another dimension. Do modern physicists not claim that there are many dimensions in the Cosmos? Since our bodies have been either left behind under the soil or ashed into the Cosmos, will we have some kind of form in the Way Station? Can an individual soul exist without form? Seers and clairvoyants describe the spirits they communicate with as clothed. Are these clothes from their last incarnation?

How do we communicate with one another on the Other Side? On the other hand, do we indeed have an individual existence? Or, does each one of us join (or re-join) a larger entity of which we are only part? Perhaps existence, in any dimension, is always an integral part of a collective!

Following that thirty-first day ceremony, our lives could go on. We could now resume cooking on the premises. For, our tradition is that no cooking shall be done in the house of the deceased until that final ceremony has been completed; that is, the ashes had been deposited in the sea. Until then, all food is brought in by relatives and friends.

About a month after that ceremony, I nearly died – from dengue fever, the bone crushing infection carried by mosquitoes. These beasts certainly tried hard to do me in, for no one else in the family suffered from malaria or dengue fever. I was so seriously ill that, after a couple of days, no one could touch the mattress I was on because of the terrible pain. A very high temperature with chills came and went. It was then I appreciated how much a young family friend had suffered when laid for nearly two years with tuberculosis of the spine. I used to visit him in an otherwise empty room in a hospital during the Japanese occupation. Near the end, he told me that he could not bear being touched, or even having his bed touched, because of the pain. To see an active sportsman brought down like that was horrible.

For me to be so ill, so soon after my father's demise, must have frightened my mother and sisters. As my situation worsened, I had a dream one night. Perhaps it was only a nightmare. Or was it a near-death experience (n.d.e.)? In that vision, I was an ephemeral figure floating near the ceiling, looking down on two bodies. I remember that I was suspended horizontally. Each body, clearly dead, was laid out on two adjacent single beds. One was my father, the other was me! Yes, that was me up there; and there was me down there! This was no reality, surely. Or, as with my father's impending death, had I picked up a message from the aether? If my death had not been ordained, why warn me that I was close to death?

That experience frightened me so much (I still remember that fear vividly) that I woke up in a great sweat. Why was I frightened? Obviously, I did not want to die yet. My sweat was so profuse that it soaked the whole bed sheet under me. From that moment on, I got better. Following the major disaster of all the wheels of my life cart falling off at the same time, I progressively began to regret my survival. Since my father's body was no more, my vision had to be a nightmare. So I argued to myself. But, how did it have an aspect of an n.d.e, that is, of floating above what seemed to be my dead body? Perhaps it was my soul reviving me, so that I could complete the dance of Destiny that I and my Significant Others had crafted in our previous lives. What a worrying thought! Is there no escape from an impersonal Destiny? For, it has to be impersonal, hasn't it? And automatic? Yes, why shouldn't our Creator God have set up a mechanism which operates automatically, and therefore impersonally? If that is undeniable, this mechanism, in its trajectory, would be unavoidable, dispassionate, unvarying. That might explain why all my prayers and smashed coconuts were wasted – in intent, effort, and outcome!

Life went on as before, with me wasting most of my time, whilst thinking about all manner of issues. I did, however, become a member of the K.L. Symphony Orchestra, playing second violin. It was mainly plick, pluck, and a bit of short saws, no doubt adding to the beauty of the presentation. The members of the orchestra were mainly Chinese, who were most keen to become Westernised, and possibly to dominate whatever situation in which they find themselves. Members of the overseas Chinese network do have that reputation.

My mother would not talk about our future or our finances. We were waiting for the Medical College in Singapore to accept me. If only that was so simple. After a selection interview by the College, during which I must have shown how naive and immature I was, I was not accepted. Yet another wheel fell off. My mother said nothing. We were told that those accepted by the Medical College, even when their School Certificate ranking was below mine, were older and therefore more mature. That seemed reasonable to me, although I had wasted a whole year, just waiting. I did blame my mother for that.

To make matters worse, my step-uncle, a dental graduate from that College, did not, in a certain expatriate Ceylon Tamil tradition, want his nephews to do better in life than he had. He offered, when he was not even thirty years of age, to get me an official dental scholarship! How? He was only a government dentist. Presumably, he intended to finance me himself, as his step-brothers had financed his own studies. He was then the highest qualified person in our extended family. He made it clear to my mother that she should give up thoughts of a medical career for me. He did not explain why, to my knowledge.

Yet, my mother would not consult her elder brothers. Why not? We had always been a close extended family. If only my father had been around! And she did not want me to wait another year, although I might then have a chance. To her, time was valuable, as ever. Why? In reality, that was only her destiny at work. For, whom the gods would destroy, they would first make mad (as someone clever had already said).

What had she done in her past lives to behave like that? My understanding of human existence, based on the philosophies of Hinduism and its offshoot, Buddhism, is that each one of us carves out the cliffs and caverns, and possibly the crisis-inducing impediments through which, and over which, will flow the river of our destiny. We will paddle on that river in our kayaks, or slabs of timber, or well-constructed boats. We will paddle as best we can along this course, with possibly some degree of free will or choice. This choice may be available in the manner of our paddling, or in minor deviations of direction or pace of propulsion. Could one allow for the Laws of Chance to have a role to play too? The ultimate end, it would seem, is as we had carved out as a probability by our own volition, albeit involuntarily, in past lives; except that, on that journey, we would have every opportunity to be more in tune with the symphony of the Cosmos. I have no problem accepting such a framework, for I have spent all my post-disaster existence trying to understand what happened to me and to a decent woman, my mother.

Is this frame of reference, and attempted explanation, not somewhat complex? Of course it is. Apart from a simplistic view that God can, and will, intervene in human affairs, with presumably no underpinning logic other than that he might want to, what other explanation makes sense? Having read about all the major religions more than once, having tried to understand the modern explanations for the Cosmos by the physicists, and having read a little about early societies, as well as individual and social behaviour, I find a glimmer of a plausible explanation in what I believe the Hindu cosmologists say about Reality.

To proceed: Does this explanation, as I understand it, offer any scope for free will regarding major human events? That does not seem probable, if the mechanism is on automatic. Yet, surely some allowance needs to be made for one's inability to comply, or even one's freedom not to comply fully or comprehensively with the imperatives of one's karma. Some allowance for one's inability to learn from the probable karmic path might also have to be made, for are we not human? How else could one allow for one's soul being required to experience rebirth repeatedly in order to learn a particular lesson? Or, for a cosmic punishment deemed necessary by the Law of Cosmic Justice?

If I have got the picture wrong, I will soon find out, I suppose. Reincarnation, as a process explaining human existence, and giving it meaning, was once apparently part of the belief systems held by all civilisations and evolved local cultures. The belief arose progressively, in part, from the need for god-kings to survive – somewhere. For, the kings, pharaohs, emperors and rulers of major civilizations were held to be the representatives of God on Earth. An inchoate but ineradicable instinct that human existence cannot possibly end with the body in the ground, would have been another strand in the causal path of that belief. Yet a further strand might have come from the influence of shamans, and other priest-like men and women who claimed to hear voices or have visions relating to another realm of Existence.

The pinnacle of what would have been diverse but evolving belief systems, with some, if not considerable, cross-fertilisation of perceptions between cultures and societies, would seem to have been provided by the ancient Hindus, whoever they were. It is certainly incredible that they came up with the idea of the universe being re-created every 8.64 billion years! Their teaching that we have to undergo repeated rebirth in order to learn about Reality is supported by modern-day information obtained through those in the Western world who channel messages from spirit guides.

A modern profile of the human being, drawn from information received through a channeller, is as a repeated projection of part of an entity elsewhere, to be polished and subsequently returned to the mother being. There are no doubt other modern profiles provided by spiritualists. It would seem impossible, at the current state of our knowledge, to compare one profile with another. Most probably, the spirits who appear to clairvoyants offer explanations only at a level of comprehension they deem appropriate for the period, place and prevailing level of understanding.

On the other hand, the Hindus (refer the Upanishads) offer a vision of each human soul arising from an Ocean of Consciousness, to take up temporary residence in successive material bodies and, following appropriate learning experiences through these repeated re-births, to ultimately return to that Ocean. To what end one might ask. My own answer would be that this Ocean might progressively achieve a higher quality in content. Never-the-less, it is surely axiomatic that rational analysis cannot be expected to solve all mysteries, especially the greatest mystery of all – God, and His ways. Whether one believes in God through acculturation within family (the traditional path) or one comes to appreciate through observation, experience and logic that there has to be a Creator, one is faced with a mystery.

Clearly, the path of repeated reincarnation would allow each one of us (our souls, that is) to improve ourselves in time – all by ourselves! It is no wonder that, early in its self-chosen path, the Christian church, and its authoritarian priesthood, decided to intrude into this path of cosmic learning. Henceforth, they said, we the priests will tell you how to reach God. In this realm of god-kings, the kingdom is in Heaven. But, do the priests say what happens after our souls are accepted into that Heaven? What of those who do not qualify?

So, is my concept of Destiny deterministic to a substantial degree? Yes. Who by? Self, of course, but in a previous life or lives. By the learning availed of, and in the manner of one's paddling on one's river of personal life, one may, however, contribute to the carving out of a better future life. And perhaps to a better ending than previously carved out. This is my understanding of the Law of Cosmic Justice or Karma. And that is my hope. For, I have been a lost soul, dispatched into a foreign milieu as an immature youth, and denied the support of clan, community and tribe. There, I have remained a marginal person societally whilst integrated operationally. Yes, I do need to understand Destiny, to make sense of my travails. For, many of them make no sense in terms of a coherent path to self improvement; or even of punishment.

How then would I know the meaning of my existence? It would be only when (as said in the Upanishads) I _Realise_ the _Self._ This Self is none other than the immanent aspect of God, the Creator (who is transcendent as well). Then, hopefully, I would truly know. That might be quite a few lifetimes ahead!

In this framework of Destiny as I intuit it, both the communitarian web and the individualistic path of responsibility within it are inter-twined. As products of the Cosmic Creator, we humans are unavoidably bonded to one another with mutual responsibilities, are we not? Yet, we are also individually responsible for making the beds we lie on within this web. Can then there be, in this framework, any scope for an interventionist god? Perhaps He (or She) can apply a smidgen of discretion here and there, say, to help me get over that rock on which my kayak is currently stuck. In this intervention, perhaps one or more spirit guides might be enlisted – so I hope. So, no harm in asking, then!

Guidance for action may thus be available from our spirit guides. These are said to be the souls of those to whom we are bonded for one significant reason or anther. We are not likely to remember these links, which may go back many a lifetime. I certainly believe that I have a guru, a spirit guide. This belief is based on some recent psychic experiences. My guide has certainly enabled me to avoid some health disasters. Of that I am sure. He has probably helped me in other areas, such as keeping me sane (whilst I sought to recover from my wheel-falling-off experiences), and focused on my next life (whilst I work assiduously as a volunteer for the common good). I am, however, not directly aware of that help. Yet, I am truly grateful that I have such a guide.

So, why pray? To gird our loins mentally and to pull up our socks spiritually, I guess. Is there then any substantive need for intercessorial priests, especially of the authoritarian kind? How would these priests know any more than we commoners? Our relationship to our Creator is said to be uniquely one-to-one. Since God, is, as I have been taught, omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent, but yet unknowable, how should I conceive God?

I cannot accept an anthropomorphic concept; that is, God in the image of Man. I cannot accept that Man is the image of God either. For, Man is most probably a joint product – of evolution from lesser beings and from genetic infusions by beings from elsewhere (viz. spacemen). Both intuited causes are probably the products of cosmic creation. To explain. Applying Occam's Razor (or principle) that the simplest explanation is best, I begin by accepting that there has to be a Cosmic Creator. Our souls say so. The complexity, intricacy and beauty of the Cosmos say so.

I envisage (again applying the above principle) that the Creator (that is, God) set up (that is, created) the Cosmos: and that it includes a mechanism which is itself capable of evolving, whilst facilitating evolution as a process which is accessible to other products of that same Creation. To evolve is to progress to something better. It is a meaningless question, of course, to ask about the origin of God, although the Mundaka Upanished says that out of infinite Godhead came forth Brahma, from whom sprung the Cosmos. If the whole of the Cosmos is capable of change, as its component parts are subject to change, there surely must be scope for random events or chance impacts, as well as mishaps during processes (for example, genetic mutation). Perhaps there might be scope for influence by the human mind (eg. mind-over-body pain control); by one's spirit guides (eg. one's subconscious mind directing an action for no rational reason); or even by an aspect of God (how would this be manifested – through one's heart?) to intervene in events or processes. Indeed, the Isha Upanished even allows for a personal god, which I see as an acceptable projection from the universal Creator. As well, the mind is said to be an instrument of consciousness; and the heart is said to be where the soul resides in its temporal home.

Then, is God (in whatever form) part of the _Ocean of Consciousness_ of which we are all part, and to which we will ultimately return? Or, is that Ocean within God?

I do like the idea of being a transient projected entity from an Ocean of Consciousness. Life on Earth would then have some significance. Is there some mechanism which creates, sustains, and periodically destroys all that has been projected from, and by, that Ocean ? That process would thus ensure the cyclical path of all things and events of significance (including each of the many possible universes and all their component parts and manifestations) within an infinite Cosmos. What I felt incoherently as a boy, whenever I looked at the starry heaven and thought of the mystery of existence, may well have been the briefest possible insight into the above Reality. So I hope.

However, the ancient Hindus, with a keen understanding of mankind, had cleverly given us more simple and therefore more acceptable forms of our Creator. Building upon the nature gods we had created out of a primordial fear, they subsequently gave us gods in the image of Man. They also provided us with appropriate rituals for seeking them. Behind the intricate relationships which evolved through tribal and associated cultural intermixing, they then projected the understanding that these gods were mere manifestations of the single Creator. By then infusing the products of Creation with the essence of the Creator, the more metaphysical adherents of Hinduism were then enabled to rise above the socio-ethical constraints of the great teachers of mankind, for example, Moses, Jesus, the Buddha, Mohammed, Mahavira, and others, in seeking fusion with the Creator. I do admit that I am now a metaphysical Hindu, with Ganesha (or Pilleyar) as my personal God (yes, I have come back to him).

The metaphysical (that is, beyond-ritual) adherents of a faith would seek an understanding of a reality transcending the semantics-infused guides for living, and the simplistic explanations offered to those who merely want a better or more secure life. There are, however, those who need to know about the _meaning_ of existence, to seek to understand _Reality_. The experience and understanding they seek is said to be beyond words, and to be _Realised,_ through meditation. It is also said that those who have Realised Reality (that is, those who know) cannot tell us what they know, for this knowledge is beyond words. As said by Krishnamurti, a century ago, "Those who know cannot tell; those who tell do not know."

In any event, each of us knows deep in our psyche that we are an integral cog in that web of a mutually-dependent creation. What can one say about experiencing (as I have) falling into holes, or crevasses that were not there? Perhaps, any imagined or perceived falling into crevices or canyons should be seen as only part of the lessons of life. As Dr. Radhakrishnan, a former president of India said "We are in this life not to be happy, but to learn." I believe that we can do both, and should therefore strive to do so.

I understood nothing of all this when I was wasting a year, just waiting. During this period, that yogi called. Holding my right hand and looking into my eyes, he told my mother and I about my personality and my life to date! He must have been talking to my aunt down the street, I thought. If he had been clairvoyant, he would have been aware of my thought. His reply to my mother's questioning about my future was that I would go south early next year. Ridiculous! This was absolutely improbable, as the academic year starts in September in Singapore, Hong Kong, India and Britain, all possible places for my study. No one went south. He went on to say that I would return in four years. This was more ridiculous! Having being exposed to palmists, seers, healers, astrologers and others who claim to be able to look into the void of the future, and who were subsequently proven to be in error, we were not inclined to be gullible.

When my mother asked if I would be a doctor by then (a strangely foolish question), he just shook his head. I would then be overseas a lot, he went on to say. When my mother asked if that would represent travel through my work, he just nodded. That was that. What was the intent of that message? Why tell us that we were doomed? Neither of us believed him. Yet, soon after, my mother set in train the necessary steps! Was it the yogi who had led her to think that she should send her son south? The yogi would have known that I would fail. So, what was his role?

To ensure that I would go to Australia? That, eventually, Australia and I would re-shape each other, as I was one of the earliest arrivals from Asia into whiter-than-white Australia? That is, I (and others) would sensitise colonially-minded white Anglo-Australians to respecting Asian cultures? That I would publish three books on migrant settlement and related sociological issues, and thus to contribute, in a small way, to building bridges between the cultures of East and West? My hope is that this will assist in eroding the deleterious effects of European colonialism.

I sailed south to Australia early the next year. I returned in four years, a failure. A year later, I left for Australia again, never to return – for about twenty-five years, and then only for short visits to the family after that. The question on everyone's mind was: how did someone who had topped his class every year prewar, and had coped successfully during the Japanese Occupation when fighting way above his weight (viz. by age, maturity, and prior learning), suddenly fall flat on his face postwar? What had gone wrong?

The short answer – subsequently accepted by my age cohorts within the extended family – was that my problem had begun before I left home. Because science laboratories had not been re-established in Malaya in that first postwar year, we students in the final year of high school were permitted, but only for that year, to sit for the exams in science in the England without doing any laboratory-based practical work that year. Were the educational authorities going to send to university school leavers with no exposure to laboratory work? Not at all. The majority, if not most, of the students completing school that year would have had laboratory experience of one to three years before the war. There should not have been many in my boat. How could my parents not recognise the deficiency in my academic preparation? Well, time is money, and the boy is a genius, right?

Our inter-locked destinies did us all in the collective eye, did they not? But I was the one to become the greatest under-achiever in the extended family, and to remain poor forever. I was the only one blamed for the fiasco. For twenty-five years I suffered terrible guilt, because I accepted total blame for what had happened. It was only after I had begun the study of religion, especially Hinduism, that I began to understand the impacts of the Law of Destiny. The guilt was then only ameliorated but never ever dissipated. How could it, when I saw the damage done to my mother and sisters? The great gulf between reasonable expectation (based on demonstrated potential) and outcome almost drowned my self-confidence. It also submerged all prospects of betterment for my mother, with disastrous consequences for my sisters. Why was it necessary to damage them too?

In Australia, standing at the workbench in the chemistry lab at the university, I read the instruction book, looked at the equipment before me nonplussed, and asked my American neighbour for help. After starting me off, he asked, "How did you get here?" My answer was: "I don't know." I struggled with the three science subjects, learning to cook the lab experiment books where possible. It was not an uncommon practice, as my fellow students had studied science all though their high school.

At the end of the year, I found that I had failed physics. I could not see how. I then passed the supplementary exam at the end of summer, only to be told that, as one of the bottom fifty in a pass list of more than two hundred students, my studies would be deferred for a year. That was it. Having started on the slippery slide to loss of confidence and loss of faith in my academic ability; not having closure at the loss of my father, and worrying about my mother's ability to cope, especially with my early failure; and with no one taking any interest in my studies or available to guide me, I slid speedily into what must have been a mental breakdown. However, I was not aware of that, and neither did anyone else, as I apparently showed no visible signs. I just drifted, unknowing and uncaring. I still do not understand that. What later appeared to be a mini-stroke did not help either, for now, an inability to study was accompanied by a worse inability - to remember!

That was akin to having all four wheels of my metaphysical cart fall off simultaneously. I eventually surfaced sufficiently to withdraw from the course. I was then quite correctly cut off financially by my mother. For years later, I doubted my ability to learn and to pass any exams. I felt that I had somehow been seriously damaged mentally. My nightmares reinforced this subconscious anxiety for years and years, even after I started to get good results at university; and subsequently doing well in employment.

For a quarter of a century, I could not clear the searing guilt for what I had done to the family's finances, to my family's future, and to my mother's reputation in her community, as well as my inability to provide support to my sisters. I was the lowest of the low. I was accused of abdicating my responsibility, of behaving in a disgusting manner. Why all the fuss? Because filial responsibility was, and is, a cultural imperative, especially in the circumstances of my family. The weight of responsibility on the first-born was great, especially as placed on the shoulders of a fool – the one whose façade of cleverness had been shattered. A mirror so shattered would never be usable. So, where now?

It is often said that, having reached rock bottom, the only way to go is up. I demur. One crawls or slides along the bottom, in the manner of a mindless slug, for a very long time, possibly ever! Casual work provided minimal sustenance and enough cash to allow me to become blotto (that is, pissed, drunk) with great regularity. One morning, after the worst hang-over ever, it dawned upon me that I was stupidly striving to drown myself, but in the wrong medium. I stopped drinking. But, I was barely able to pay my rent.

Then my destiny started to pull me up from the rocky bottom of my personal ravine, but in a strange way. After an operation on my nasal septum, I had bled continuously for four days. In my lethargy, I had just stayed in bed, and no one knew this. Was I being stoic? After all, when I had been passing blood in my urine for a few days after a large hockey player had fallen knees-down on my right kidney a while back, had I not stayed in bed until my landlady had rung a friend of mine?

A bright and chatty girl whom I had been seeing casually visited me to see why she had not heard from me. Horrified at my situation, she had taken me by taxi to her home. Did she have any inkling that her destiny might be about to do her in the eye? There, with her mother's help, she looked after me until I recovered and returned to my place. Naturally, we began to spend more time with each other. In time, love overcame us. Destiny does work in wondrous ways! I slowly grew out of my slug-like approach to life. With someone caring for me, I began to think about a new start. I actually became optimistic that I might succeed in life. Love and support was all I needed to look to the skies. Without any plans, we decided to marry. Ah, the innocent optimism of youth! Since her father sensibly opposed our marriage, we eloped – but only to another part of town.

Two weeks later, I left for Singapore, as I had no right to stay in Australia. The White Australia Policy had sharp teeth. A number of coloured people, given succour in Australia because of the war with Japan, had been required to leave the country after the war. The High Court subsequently ruled that the federal government had acted illegally in enforcing departures. The persistent effort by the relevant Minister to get rid of an Ambonese woman with many children, the last of whom had been sired by her white Australian husband, was both immoral and a national disgrace! Yet, the Immigration chief I dealt with refused to deport me as I asked. Why? Because I might become an important official back home, he said, and a deportee would not be allowed to re-enter Australia. My wife went back to her parents. Her father was delighted to have his only child return home, and (seemingly) all was forgiven.

Thus ended an apparent aeon of psychological drift, and an age of subterranean turbulence caused by that all-devouring tsunami which had destroyed my future. A glimmer of stability was now perceived on the horizon, hinting at the possibility of a blue sky. A warming sky was, however, to require a very long dawn, as might happen in the recovery phase following a major cosmic collision which had obliterated the sun for some time.

My subliminally formed overview was that it was the best of times, whilst it was also the worst of times. (I must have read that somewhere.) The best of that time was an atmosphere of hope. Of hope grounded in the certainty that things must surely improve. Why so? Because of my belief in that pendulum; the pendulum that must in its trajectory, slow, stop, and then reverse direction. This, fortunately is not a pendulum of time – for time has to go on and on, irreversibly. Newton's Second Law apparently endorses that concept. The pendulum I have in mind is one that governs the birth and the death of our universe, and possibly the Cosmos as a whole.

According to the ancient Indians and Persians, an 'age' of the universe takes up 8,640 _billion_ years. The Hindus refer to this period as a day and night of Brahma (the Creator); that is, one _Kalpa._ Brahma is believed to _re-create_ the universe at the beginning of each _Kalpa_ , a cyclical process representing an infinity of time for all known life forms. For, no one, no society, lives long enough to confirm or reject that probability, if not the actuality.

The lesser pendulum of relevance for me, however, is the pendulum of society. For, it has been observed through the centuries, indeed the millennia, that societies of mankind do move from one end of the spectrum of values, say, conservative to liberalism, and then back again in time. The shortest cycle is generally over a generation, that is, about thirty years. This mini-pendulum, this mini-cycle, must obviously operate within the penumbra of that major cosmic-cycle pendulum, whilst the uni-directional flow of time subsumes these cyclical movements. Just as the tides of the seas are influenced by the phases of the moon, so might the tides of social values and events be influenced by the movements of the planets. The two major planets of relevance to puny people have cycles of about thirty and sixty years respectively. Chinese astrology is based upon a cycle of sixty years.

On the other hand, I knew that, for me, it was also the worst of times. For, the sun had not yet risen over the opening of that deep well into which I had been cast. In the event, it did not matter why I got there, and who did the casting: that is, how I got there. In that deep well of uncertainty and poverty, and of uncaring people, I had little chance of changing my material circumstances. Ah, but no one (repeat, no one) could deny me hope. For, without hope, I might as well be dead. Spiritually dead, that is.

It was with hope uplifting my soul that I did truthfully say: it is the worst of times, as I know it; it is also the best of times, as I feel it. My fortunes will one day rise, if only slightly, in response to the call of my soul. My destiny will permit the pendulum of society to apply to my life chances, if not to my lifestyle – so I hoped. I will therefore seek to climb out of any chasms I fall into which were obviously not there, or when any wheels of my life fall off.

Keeping afloat

Feeling nothing, thinking nothing, I returned to a situation that offered nothing. I was, however, optimistic about my future. I had a loving wife. If I had hung on in Australia, my residence status in that country might have been altered. My wife and her parents might have persuaded their government to allow me to stay.

My mother had, however, asked the Australian government to return me to Malaya. To what end? There was nothing more my mother could do for me. In return, there was nothing that I could do for her. We sat together sometimes, but in total silence. It was unreal. She did not reproach me. Neither did she seek an explanation. I could offer her none anyway, as I did not understand what had happened. There was no talk of a future either. She did not acknowledge that I had an Australian wife. However, before I was married, she had been alerted by a competent astrologer in India (in writing) to the probability that marriage was on the cards for me.

We were both out of our depth. Yet, near the end of her life she threatened to sue me for the money I had wasted, although she knew that I was too poor to give her anything. It was, at last, a gesture from her, demonstrating her hitherto concealed anger and agony. At best, it was futile. But, I understood – and again wept for her, for Destiny's dastardly treatment of a good person. The loss of her loving mother in childhood, the loss of her husband so early in life, the destruction of all her hopes of an eventual material and social betterment, and the awareness that, inexplicably, her firstborn was a total failure in every respect, was not fair.

Living in sorrowful silence with her gave me lots of time for thinking. I came to understand that I had gone to Australia without closure for the sudden and terrible loss of my father. My grief was deep. Whilst there, I had been further stressed to see from photographs that my mother had aged dramatically, and had lost a lot of weight. My anxiety had been unrelenting. To be told twelve months after I had commenced my course that I was in the bottom fifty of the two hundred or so students who had passed had made me doubt my ability. I had indeed studied hard, and intelligently so. Where had I, who had previously such a good academic record, gone wrong?

I felt knocked down and trodden on. There were no formal structures set up by the university that I knew of to guide me. I was also not used to seeking explanations from authority figures. I know now that I had lost my confidence totally. But, how did I then lose my way so effectively? Yes, the wheels had indeed fallen off my career cart but, how did I just drift and dream away my life? Had I caused my mini-stroke through this mental agony and confusion? It was after that, that I decided to study both psychology and society. That might also help me understand what had driven my mother, and what she might be feeling about having her fool of a son under her roof. Why had she not consulted her older brothers after my father's death? Why bring me back, in collusion with the Department of Immigration, to nothing – for her as well? Dear, oh dear, our destinies had no doubt done us in very effectively.

Ridiculously, decades later, in a most significant psychic experience, I was told (through a reputable clairvoyant with an excellent track record) that the spirit world had experienced a great deal of difficulty in getting me to Australia! The informant in this psychic experience of mine was the spirit of my eldest uncle, Ratna Uncle. He was the second-most influential male in my formative years. I had identified the spirit as his (although only the clairvoyant could 'see' him) through a description of physical features, clothing, speech, matters discussed, reference to his past beliefs, and the phraseology he used. His principal objective in this presentation was to guide me, after my retirement, to a path of spiritual development. That was what had led me to write and publish my books. The bottom line was that I had to be in Australia. To what end?

This experience led me to contemplate many related issues. For example, does the spirit world have a role in ensuring that a destiny forged in a previous life is brought to fruition? Or, can (or does) the spirit world act autonomously to achieve worthwhile ends? If so, is this enabled by lacunae in a weakly structured karmic flow of events affecting an individual and his Significant Others?

In my mother's home, I also realized that no one visited us. It seemed to be known widely that the self-scuttling pariah had returned. My later appeal to my uncles for any help that they could give me was ignored by them – and correctly so. For, as was pointed out to me publicly on a bus by a close family friend, my behaviour was disgusting, and I had shown no responsibility. I agreed. It also seemed that my return to my family and home town was necessary so that I might be properly put in my place. Why was that relevant in the greater scheme of things?

Then, a stranger arrived at the house, saying "Thamby, I knew that I would meet you here this month." (Thamby means son. It is also a nice way of saying 'young man.') I was flabbergasted. So, that too was ordained! After all, I had had no intention of returning to my mother's home. She had no idea if she would see me again. Since I was now sufficiently sensitised by the scientific method to question much of the psychic phenomena built into the clan's culture, I wondered about this man's claim. Knowing this man's ability, my mother had asked him, whilst I was in Australia, if she would see me ever again. As he subsequently explained to me, he had acquired the ability, late in life, to meditate and, through that, to occasionally obtain a glimpse into the future. He had seen us both in that very house in that month – and that was six months before! What could I say? He also told me that I would have a difficult time all my life. OK, OK, I will lower my hopes about the future. How true his vision turned out to be. What was worse, a palmist confirmed that perception a short while later. Well, so much for the scientific method!

Worse still for my scientific perspective, when I accompanied my mother and a sister to a healer with a sound reputation, I found myself in a room in a coolie 'line' in a nearby rubber estate. In a room an exact copy of the room in that rubber estate where my mother, my sisters and I had stayed whilst the Japanese had driven the British out of Malaya, a dark-skinned Indian (was he really a Brahmin?) had established a small temple. It was a private healing puja (ceremony) especially for my sister's ailment. At the end of the ceremony, he gave each of us a sip of the milk used to wash the statue. I accepted the milk with due deference. Yet I knew that he had sensed my scepticism. We looked each other in the eye, but both said nothing. I was thinking 'This is how these interloper Brahmins had conned the people of India with their fire worship and associated ceremonies.'

He was not to know that, only a short time before, in Australia, I had waved a fist in the direction of the alleged home of the gods. The ardent temple-goer and believer in God had now renounced Him. Had I not prayed profusely and broken enough coconuts to be looked after? If I had to be on my own, so be it. God did not of course respond to my challenge. As Bishop Fulton Sheen said, "No man hates God without first hating himself."

The all-knowing sceptic was subsequently confounded when he learnt that his sister's complaint had never recurred. Who was the healer? What was the mechanism? Yet, over the years, reliance on seers and healers had proven beneficial. Precious lost goods had been found under advice from seers. Some seers had conveyed messages from the spirit world, either to heal or to guide. Surely, the proof of the pudding was in the eating!

In this context, I had had a more confusing experience when I was fifteen, and living with my guardian. As I was cycling past a field near home, I saw a small crowd surrounding what looked like a firm mattress on the grass, with a man wearing only a sarong, lying on it. I could see clearly what was going on from the edge of the field. A white opaque cloth was then held up around the mattress with light bamboo staves. After a lot of drumming, clarinet playing, and loud chanting, the fabric was removed. There, about five feet above the ground, floated the mattress with the man lying on it, the ropes at each corner of the mattress dangling and blown about by a light breeze. This was the first and only time I had seen anything resembling the fabled Indian rope trick. I did not believe what I saw, and yet I do know what I saw!

I rode off thinking, as said in that American tv program 'Hogan's Heroes' in the late 1960s or early 1970s by a Sergeant Schultz, "I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing." There was no way I would risk being smacked or told off for being stupid. I told no one until about fifty years later, when I knew that these things can happen. Perhaps, in spite of our collective knowledge, mankind really knows nothing. Existing in the state of maya, where nothing is either real or unreal, what could we be certain of knowing?

I had yet another challenging experience five years later in Melbourne, about which I was equally silent – for the next forty-five years. On a warm summer's night, a friend and I simultaneously saw, in a sky rich with stars, a meteor or falling (shooting) star. As we exclaimed our joy and watched, this 'star' stopped. As we exclaimed our surprise, it went back up the sky at an acute angle, and then stopped. This is ridiculous, I said to my companion. Suddenly, the 'star' took off at another acute angle – way up and into the distance. My friend and I agreed that what we had seen was impossible. We would both emulate the future Sergeant Schultz.

Nothing in the heavens was known to be able to move in acute angles, and to stop before each change of direction. Russia's Sputnik was to come later, but could it stop and change directions so acutely? Could any of the satellites subsequently soaring serenely above us (and spying on us) do that? I doubt it, or there surely would be reports of deep-space collisions and 'road rages' by now. Anyway, celestial trajectories are elliptical; only man-made trajectories are erratic. But, could that 'star' have been made on Earth? I very much doubt it.

How erratic my future life was meant to be was demonstrated by my wife. In her youthful enthusiasm (she was only 21 when we married a few months back), she decided to join me. This was going to be interesting. It would be like letting an energetic tiger cub into a paddock in which a few placid cattle were masticating meaningfully. My mother and two of my younger sisters were now living in a cheap home in an un-appetising kampong-like sector on the outer edge of town. Gone was the government house, with its green front lawn, lots of flower pots, beautiful bed of orchid plants, and productive fruit trees. Gone was the clear demarcation between homes. It was a timber home with an _attap_ (ie thatched) roof.

The neighbouring houses were not laid out in a typically geometrical pattern. There were no lawns or patches of grass, or fences. The closest house was a duplex in which were located two Chinese women, who must have been concubines. When the husband visited one, the other played her radio very loudly; and vice versa. He always visited both on the same day, and was therefore admired by the neighbourhood, not only as a real democrat, but also for his vitality.

My young wife was ebullient, and capable of chatting freely on any subject to anyone. Her long golden hair and charming smile would draw attention in any Asian environment. She could get along well with my mother and sisters. My concern was whether my mother, with her limited English, would be comfortable in conversation, especially on the personal matters that were bound to be discussed. Another concern was how my wife would react to the obviously poor accommodation, my lack of income, and how I would earn a living. I was aware that a friend of hers had married a European, and was living very comfortably in Malaya. Had she not expected a comfortable lifestyle in comparable circumstances? However, as we were very much in love (our letters showed that), I felt that we would be able to sort ourselves out, after a possibly difficult start.

So, I went off to Singapore to meet my wife. The reunion was indeed joyous. We shook off a young Chinese journalist who was curious (as he should have been) about this youthful European/Asian couple. After all, this was in the early 1950s, when the British Raj ruled a lot of the world, and young Asian lads were not seen with white girls. We caught the overnight train to K.L., knowing that the train tracks going up and down Malaya had been blown up quite frequently by the communist Chinese insurgents. In fact, the track had been re-opened only a week before. Preceding each train was a vehicle of some kind which would detonate any booby trap on the tracks. This would prevent the train and its passengers being derailed. Forcing the night train to stop would allow the insurgents to shoot at the train under cover of darkness. In order to defend the train, the British had some troops on board.

My wife and I had an unbroken and happy journey. Before we became romantically inter-twined on a narrow bunk in a two-bunk sleeper, we observed the other passengers, and the troops there to protect us. Many of our fellow passengers looked fearful, others were tense, whilst the rest were like my wife and I, quite relaxed. None of them seemed to notice the unusual brown with white combination. The soldiers, carrying rifles, walked back and forth, giving us faith in the protection available. However, by 10 pm, many of them were clearly intoxicated. I saw two nearly fall out of the train, so drunk they were. With their strange accents, we could barely understand what they were saying to one another. Was anyone in charge? By midnight, it seemed to me that they were not likely to damage any insurgents, should these choose to make their presence felt.

This behaviour was explained much later in my little Australian coastal town by an English acquaintance. He had been one of the national servicemen from the UK stationed in Malaya, and had had his share of duty on the night train. He explained that many of his 'nasho' colleagues were sensibly afraid of being shot at. In truth, however, few of them had been shot at, or shot anyone, in their two-year stint in the warmth and relative wealth they experienced in Malaya.

This was confirmed for me later on board a small coastal vessel of about two thousand tons plying between Singapore and Fremantle. My cabin mate was another 'nasho' from the UK migrating to Australia from Malaya at the end of his compulsory service. He had had a good life in camp, with a Malay girlfriend in the nearby kampong. He used to nip over the fence at night (when he was not on duty) and nip back at dawn, he said. He knew that his commanding officer was aware of this practice but had chosen not to intervene. The girl was 'clean', the relationship was clearly stable, and the army knew where he was. Naturally, he had left the Malay girl behind when he was de-mobbed.

The two Frenchmen in the second class cabin we all shared were disgusted by this story. They too had been national servicemen. But their tour of duty had been in Algeria, where they had been in a dangerous war zone. As the Algerians hated them, they had been shot at. They had also been forced to be celibate – which they did not find amusing. I could empathise with them about being celibate, but that was only because I had been timid, and initially afraid of that contact that my elders had warned us against.

Their advice had been based on reported experiences by young Malayans who had studied in Britain. These, seen as wealthy, had attracted young women who had apparently expected a life of comfort, if not luxury, in the tropics. Reality, in the form of life within an extended Asian family framework, with its mutual respect and obligation structures, and some authority relationships, did not match the individual-based lifestyle in the UK. Many of these marriages did not therefore last. A few British authors sought to explain these marriage failures.

They accused the returnee Asians of going 'native'. (Oh, the ignorant arrogance of the colonial white man!) That is, the returnees had gone back to their sarongs, veshties, and other ethnic clothing, eating with their hands or chopsticks, and generally behaving according to the cultural values and practices they had left behind when they went to study in Britain. The discontinuity in these East-West relationships was that, whilst the Asians had adapted to British social conventions and mores when in the UK, their British wives had not been willing or able to accept the conventions and mores of the Asian communities or families they had married into.

On board our ship, the Englishman had bored us by asserting that brown girls were infinitely more beautiful than white ones, whilst the Frenchmen naturally thought every girl attractive. By the time we got to Fremantle, the Englishman had begun to share the Frenchmen's perspective. Perception is often need-based, is it not?

On the contrary, need can be perception-based. Since she had not seen much movement on the tropical front, my wife had obviously decided to hasten matters. She had, for some years, hoped to experience life in the tropics. Seeing my family home and surroundings must have been more of a shock to her than it had been to me. However, for a couple of weeks, we all lived peaceably. But we did not do anything or go anywhere, as I had no money. Then my wife showed a side of her personality I had not even suspected. She created a ruckus, wanting to eat steak (in a Hindu home?), and generally making it clear that she was unhappy. She made it clear too that we had to leave. Yet, the relationship between a white stranger and my mother and sisters had hitherto been relaxed and friendly, whilst perhaps a little watchful. For no one knew what to do next, or what to expect. It was indeed a very strange situation, with no discussion, before the ruckus, about the future.

Whilst it was evident to me that my mother was keeping her family afloat, as ever, whilst she was possibly waiting to see what happened next, I had no plans and no idea as to where I should turn. My wife had never asked about my family, but was aware that I would return an outcast, and that I would need to find my own way forward. Since this would be easy in Australia, because it is the norm for individuals to strike out on their own, both my wife and I had simply assumed that this is what I would do in Singapore.

But that is not how things happen in the East. One either waited for things to happen, if at all, or one asked others for help or advice. My wife was starting to become aware of that, and that should have worried her. Looking back, both my wife and I had been very, very naïve. We knew little about the realities of the Asian world.

So, we left in a tense atmosphere, with no on saying anything. I felt intuitively that I was now leaving my family for good. I felt even more sorry for my mother. This led to a deepening of my sense of guilt, which was to last for decades. I felt that it was all my fault, especially as I could see no scope for improvement in her life. As for me, I could see nothing but hardship, with or without a wife. I had already been told, again and again, by palmists that I would be married twice. That was not something that I had ever wanted to know. In my shame, after my second entry to Australia, I had no further contact with my family for years. Indeed, I have limited my contacts to my sisters and first cousins, avoiding gatherings of elders and other tribal connections. Why? Because of openly disdainful comments from some; and that terrible sense of shame. How does one overcome that, in spite of purporting to understand the workings of Destiny?

Leaving the family home, my wife and I returned to Singapore by taxi and booked into an inexpensive Chinese hotel. There, much to my surprise, all hell broke loose. My wife began to scream and shout about her unhappiness. She then suddenly threatened to commit suicide. Nothing could pacify her. I had no idea that she would behave like this. I had no experience with emotional outbursts of any kind, by anyone. How could I deal with an outburst of such intensity in an adult? Then that temper I had been warned about unleashed itself without warning. To my knowledge, I had never lost my temper, ever.

My voice dropped to a low growl (I remember that), and I grabbed her below her broad, baby-bearing hips (which were never to bear my babies) and held her out of the second floor window. A good half of her was outside the window. The muscles I had developed in a gym were now proving themselves. I said something to the effect that I would help her die; just say the word, and I would drop her on her head. She grabbed the window sill, lowered her voice, and asked to be let back in. I insisted that she go. Finally, I gave in, on condition that she promised me that she would never, ever, threaten me with suicide.

It must have been an easy promise, as she must have felt that I meant what I said. How did she know? From my growl and the repeated jerks of her body out of the window. Did I really mean it? Yes! Why? Because I had again reached rock bottom emotionally. It was a very strange feeling. I knew too that I cannot afford to lose my temper ever again, for I am clearly dangerous in that condition. Then, I did not care about any consequences. Yet, about forty years later, I did lose my temper, but fortunately to a lesser degree. My voice said that I had had enough, when my employer impugned my integrity; and my words and eyes said that I 'take no shit' from anyone. The word got around – this man takes no shit. OK, I could live with that. At that time I was a poorly paid lowly part-time petrol station attendant providing drive-way service late at night, at risk of being held up, even bashed.

Back in that room in that cheap Chinese hotel, since I loved my wife dearly, I put my arms around her, and we both recovered our sanity. This, I believe, showed that, whilst I might fall into a hole that was not there, I could climb out of it, whilst keeping sight of the blue sky above. Knowing now that my wife had a great capacity for emotional outbursts, I would keep my cool in future, I said to myself. That I did, during the time we were together. The next day, we rented a room in a house owned by a charming Chinese female sergeant in the Singapore Police Force. I cannot remember how we found it.

The other upstairs room was occupied by a charming RAAF sergeant and his snooty and silly wife. We all took turns in the kitchen downstairs. My wife and I often sat and chatted with the sergeant at the dining table after dinner. He said that his wife, like the rest of the British military, did not like mixing with Asians. I remember the sergeant telling us that the pecking order within the military was rigidly observed, so that his social life was bound by other sergeants. Yet all ranks were described by him as being unhappy when sighting their top echelons socializing with wealthy or powerful Asians.

The sergeant had, however, broken ranks on fraternising with the local people, because he had grown up in Jamaica in a sugar plantation with coloured people. He was a delight to know, with an unusual accent. He relished in telling us how all the expatriates were overpaid relative to the locals (he was paid twice as much as an Asian doctor); how his wife, with no appropriate qualifications, was in charge of a government medical clinic, because only a white person was allowed to hold that position; and how she supervised local staff with better British qualifications.

We went to a social evening with his fellow sergeants one night. I do not know how his wife felt about that. She came from a small fishing village and had a high-pitched uneducated voice. Her nursing training was basic. Who were we to complain? We had no qualifications at all. We had a great time that night. I danced with a couple of other sergeants' ladies too. Thus, a wasted youth can sometimes offer useful social skills.

I found myself a job as a teacher, with a couple of mishaps en route. My wife, a trained operatic soprano, with a lovely voice, got a part-time job at the prestigious Cathay Restaurant, where she was very popular. That she was so young and so apparently naive, whilst a good looker with an attractive physique was a great attraction to the wealthy patrons. They were a polyglot group, with some of the expatriates (mainly from Europe) resident upstairs in the hotel. Teaching did not pay well, but singing did. We earned enough to live comfortably.

Finding a teaching job was interesting. A young Ceylonese got me my first job, which was part-time in a private school. How did I qualify for teaching? I had, in that wasted year after completing school, taught for a while at an afternoon private school. There, students from the vernacular schools would enter classes at a level lower than their competence, in order to learn English and, if appropriate, seek to complete the British schools certificate exam. My matriculation was enough for my employer. The poor students, mainly Chinese, had to put up with the exploits of Sir Francis Drake and the rest of the crap I myself had put up with. I could see they were bored. One lad, of about my vintage, used to test me by asking me about the meaning and use of many words. One day, the word was rut. I explained about the tracks in mud, etc. No, he said, the other one. Ha! I thought to myself as I saw that he had what looked like a dictionary at his side on the chair. Yes, it means jig-jig, I said, using my hands. A circle with thumb and forefinger, with the other forefinger in motion through it brought out a laugh in the class. A quick exchange in Chinese indicated my acceptance as a smart arse (in the language of my day).

In my first Singapore job, at the end of the month, my go-between brought me my wage! When I asked the Indian principal to be paid directly, he explained that the go-between had to take his cut directly the first month before I received my money. This go-between was a crook. He took my heavy Australian winter overcoat to sell to a friend. The friend, who turned out to be the son of the principal, took off to the UK with the overcoat. The crook said that he had not been paid, the principal denied any responsibility, and I resigned. I lost almost the full amount of my monthly wage with that coat. At the next private school, after a month of full-time work, I was not paid. When the owner said he could not pay me, I slapped him in front of his students and left. Yet another Ceylonese crook. However, as Goethe said wisely, "We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves."

For a short while, I taught English to an evening class of Indian shop assistants dealing with European tourists. There, we had fun dealing with bow (as in showing respect), bow (as in arrows), row (as in an argument), row (as in boat), cough, enough, bough, and so on. Since their languages are phonetic, they could not understand how the English language could be so strange. "Why sir?" they would ask.

Then I heard that the Education Department needed teachers. I rang the head of the appropriate section, and a languid English voice said to come back in a year's time. My contact, a senior teacher, sent me to a particular school, and I started full-time work the next day! When my wife and I joined the East-West Society, a social group of Asians and Europeans, we met an Englishman with an educated and charming Chinese wife. Whilst he had retained his job as an administrator in a public service department, there was no social life available for them with his English colleagues. They were an interesting and nice couple, as were an Indian scholar, with an Indian MA degree in philology, and a Chinese wife. The Indian was forced to teach privately.

Our social life began at the Cathay. Having eaten there previously, we had been able to observe the clientele, which was naturally mainly Chinese. The population of Singapore was then about 85% Chinese. No one was ever seen drunk, in spite of ' _Yam Seng'_ (bottoms up) being called so frequently. It seems that anyone affected by alcohol (generally brandy) was taken out quietly by the back door. We had a Chinese inspector of police pointed out to us. He seemed to be a permanent fixture. It was suggested to us discreetly that certain responsibilities, such as the licensing of hawkers, could bring substantial financial benefits to senior police, which would naturally be shared with their English bosses. That is, a guy in the middle did the taking, and he and his bosses did the spending – so it was hinted to us.

In this context, I heard of a friend of the family, an inspector of police, who was so honest that he reported certain officers in his division as corrupt, citing evidence. He was subsequently transferred to another area of work. In his new job, he did the same, citing certain other officers. He was moved again after a while. There, before he could strike again, certain evidence of his corruption was allegedly found at his desk when he was out at lunch! He was fired for corruption. He was obviously a slow learner. Was there a lesson for me here when I applied to join the colonial police?

An important lesson in the tropics is that the sun's searing heat takes no prisoners, especially those from temperate climes with little fore-knowledge. My wife learnt this one midday. She became seriously ill with heat-stroke, just after half an hour of frolicking in the warm water of the sea. The cross-cultural cuisine is kinder than the sun, if one shies away from chilies; these have their own form of searing heat. Both influences are insidious. Yet more insidious were the intentions of the well-heeled males marauding in clubs cloistered within expensive hotels. Only the rich can have access. Any innocent female newcomer found in these precincts (by invitation generally) was seen primarily as meat, fresh (as in new, not unused) meat. The Cathay was not a club but the bar there had a club-like atmosphere. It was this environment which my wife entered as a singer.

She was inexperienced in the malefic ways of male marauders, chatty and cheerful, and confident in the manner of a pup let loose into a room full of young children. Fortunately for her, she did not need the benefits which certain ambitious mature men (both expatriate and local) seemingly wanted to bestow upon her. She knew that it was only their age-maturity and money that gave many of them the confidence to ignore their own marital obligations, and to seek to seduce a married lass who may have seemed a social simpleton. I once observed a portly senior Indian millionaire, with an attractive wife and well behaved teenage children, place some sweet between my wife's lips. What a foolish optimist – in his own palatial home, and in the presence of his family and close friends. Is there a bigger fool than a middle-aged fool? Apt is Byron's "What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry."

The sexual life of my wife was, I had reason to believe, most satisfactory. My muscular body would have put to shame the mature and somewhat sloppy physiques of those who sought her. Yet she could not have been averse to the unspoken pleading in the eyes of the seekers. However, she made sure that, when accepting the odd drink in the club, it was always in my company. We accepted meals only in the company of the wives of our hosts. That is, my young wife was no simpleton. But she must have found it so warming to be so wanted. And the marauders waited and manoeuvred, as I observed with cynicism.

Superb in my confidence that I could satisfy my wife's libidinal urges (her responses during our frequent coital coupling said so), I was quite relaxed in the company of those I knew hoped to cuckold me. I also guessed that my casual confidence might deter, even if just a little, any overt efforts of seduction. In any event, I had a simple weapon. No, it was not my manhood. It was just my warning to my dear wife that, were any of her suitors successful in their seduction, she need not bother to return to me. Did I ever wonder how long that warning would be heeded? No, I was too cocky, so to speak. But, it was surely the right age to be cocky!

From the perspectives of the unannounced pursuers, I was the potentially weak link in the protective aura around their prey. I was Asian! My fellow Asians would have seen a young man, one of their own, who was patently poor. They therefore patronized me in a distantly charitable manner. The expatriates who dominated this colonial outpost saw only (I am sure) an interloper into what should have been a white-man domain (and meat market). They would also have seen that this fellow, with his quietly confident ways, did not even bother to behave in a protective manner towards his wife. What sort of young man was this, they must have wondered. They would have noted too that we had a great ability to chat freely with all comers, irrespective of age, gender, ethnic origin or social status. Who were we? What was our background? We did not say. They could not find out!

On one occasion, we were invited to spend a day in the company of a visiting maharajah. Although he had been pensioned off by the first government of an independent India, he had retained his title. He had stopped off in this British colony on his way to Sydney, and the leaders of the local Indian community had been asked to entertain him. We thus spent most of a day keeping the maharajah company, and found him a relaxed and sociable man. The maharajah may have found our open and casual conversation more to his taste than the often obsequious manner of his people. After three months in Sydney, he flew to his mansion and racehorses in England. A couple of weeks later, a 'Sydney socialite' was met by some members of the Indian community, and re-packaged to be forwarded to his mansion. Re-packaging might have meant equipping her with saris and other appropriate garments. Six months later, she was returned to Sydney. We wondered how the Maharajah's British friends treated this temporary import.

Thus, for a while, my wife and I basked in the warmth of a somewhat unusual relationship with people way above our station (so to speak). At cocktail parties, we met people of a variety of ethnic origins, and observed the interplay of relative wealth or influence. Any effort by the opportunists to make me inebriate was wasted. Some did try. I could hold my drink (three-fourths of a bottle of Scotch was then no problem), having trained myself during my university days. In my first year of alcoholic intake, I had actually become drunk on alcohol of every colour, of every type, and thus become proficient in a skill necessary in my present circumstances. Thus, whenever an unattached host eventually displayed the effects of his alcohol, my wife and I would wander off hand in hand, commencing our foreplay in the taxi on our way home. It was all good fun!

Nevertheless, it must be said that we made a few good friends. A millionaire couple from Sind (now in Pakistan) almost adopted us. Our friend would ring up and say, "Raj, pick you up at...". Then off we would go, often only to their home. A shy, most attractive young wife (pretty close to our age we suspected), with a lovely little boy (after whom I named my first son), made us welcome. It was so delightful to be accepted as we were. Another Indian couple was equally friendly and caring. How fortunate we were. Then there was an Arab friend, son of that community's leader. He and I were so similar in appearance that I was sometimes taken to be his brother! Whilst we did meet his wife and parents, and were greeted and treated warmly, he was normally alone; but we felt a genuine friendship. I do wonder – how did we achieve such close friends, way out of our social class?

However, such times are rarely meant to last. Because I was to attend a six-month residential camp as a trainee police inspector in the Singapore Police Force, my wife returned to her family in their small suburban home. It was intended that she rejoin me when I completed my course. As a married inspector, I would be given a home and a car. The home would probably be a flat in one of the government's housing complexes. The selection for training was tough. Out of about 400 applicants, only 28 had been selected. Sporting skills and physical fitness were essential. I had been an A grade hockey player and had spent some time doing weight training in a gym in Australia. My maturity and ability to deal with all manner of ethnicities, economic class, and occupations must have also helped. I could therefore look forward to an interesting and comfortable life, and a steady promotion. I could hope ultimately to replace the Englishmen who held the top positions.

Just before I commenced my training, however, I was informed that my in-laws had obtained official authority for me to reside in Australia. Promptly and unwisely, that is, without further enquiry, I withdrew from the training program. In all probability, I had closed the door on any eventual return to government employment in Singapore. Any prospects for becoming one of the elite in a future administration was most certainly foreclosed. For, the time to prepare for independence had arrived.

I did not think about all that. I wanted to be with my wife. In Australia, I would obtain suitable qualifications, and seek to return to upcountry Malaya. I know now how naïve I was. Did I know what Destiny had planned for me? No, but Australia beckoned. It now seems that I had to be in Australia. So, I went. When I was told half a lifetime later by the spirit of Ratna Uncle, through a clairvoyant with a proven track record, that 'they' had had 'so much difficulty' in getting me to Australia, I can only wonder at the mysteries of the Cosmos.

Who were 'they'? Why did I have to be brought to Australia? These were questions which arose only after that significant psychic experience. Was there something that I had to do?

Still filled with guilt, I bade my family farewell. I did not think I would see them again, ever. I knew that, to the older people in the community, I was no good. This was in spite of my sisters and cousins acknowledging that I had not been prepared adequately for overseas study. Yet, the question would remain, as asked by one cousin, why did I not keep trying to complete my studies and qualify as a doctor? But then, what about that yogi's reading of my life chart, bolstered by the readings of palmists and clairvoyants? Could I change what had been written on my forehead (in the words of the Koran)?

So, I left for Australia again. I was full of quiet confidence. I loved my wife, and was loved in return. I saw Australia as offering us a better future than Singapore. There was neither reason nor any other kind of logic behind that belief. Again, my mother kindly provided my fare. She was ever helpful. But I knew that I could never repay her in this life for her efforts to guide me, and to put me into a career. After all, she had only done what she had thought was best. And she would be admired by all who knew her for the manner in which she had managed her fatherless family, and coped with the consequences of my failure.

I knew too that I could never repay the eldest of my younger sisters for standing in my shoes for the rest of my mother's life. Fortunately, my sister understands that. I believe that this then led to her children, and other nephews and nieces, to keep in touch with me – mainly by e-mail now – for all these years. When one is alone, such support is absolutely wonderful.

Travelling by slow boat to Fremantle and a slower train across the Nullarbor Desert, I arrived at my wife's simple suburban parental home early one morning. There I was met by my dear wife. To my shock, she told me, quite simply and clearly, without any emotion that, having returned me to where she had picked me up, she did not want me anymore!

I know that, having paid off the taxi, with my bag on the pavement, I stood there in silence. How does one respond to shock like that? Again, I felt nothing, thought nothing. The emptiness in my soul manifested itself not. Having burnt my bridges back to the land of my birth, I was now on a surface which had no substance. Yet, the sense of being in limbo did not manifest itself. How could one _be_ , without a sense of _being_? I said nothing because I had nothing to say. Metaphysically, I was drowned. So I waited in silence.

Quo Vadis?

The wheels of my life had fallen off again. The dance of my destiny required a new choreography. Could I know whether this would be a recurring pattern in my life? So ended too that brief but interesting interlude in that tropical isle. For a short period, love had achieved the highly improbable. Two impetuous and impecunious youths had survived their first year of marriage in strange and unpredictable circumstances, and been enriched by that experience – morally and societally. But, would my destiny allow me re-entry to the land of my birth to re-join my people, as it had allowed me re-entry to the antipodean land whose opportunities I had only recently wasted? I had already learnt that this land which, whilst seen by most white immigrants to offer good prospects for a successful future, might yet deny me equal opportunity; and that would be because of my skin colour and cultural heritage. There could thereby be more wheels-falling-off experiences awaiting me in the land that my destiny seemed to be saying is to be my home.

After that precognitive glimpse into my father's death, however, I had no desire to peer into the void of the future. What I did not wish to foresee could be as full of serpents as of houris. Let the dice fall as ordained. Does not the Koran say "When its time has come, the prey does indeed go to the hunter"? Is the prey meant to be happy about that? Could I do any more than await the new dance that Destiny had for me?

On that cold morning at the kerbside, I stood in stunned silence, looking at the wife I loved dearly, and for whom I had left a promising career with my own people. I was clearly lost. There was an emptiness in my mind and in my soul. I was conscious of neither past nor future, only an empty present.

Yet, somewhere deep in my psyche, on that cold morning of emptiness, I would have known that I was being taken along an improbable but Destiny-derived path. There had to be meaning in the turmoil of my life. I had also been told early in my youth that the vicissitudes of life represent (in part) a cosmic payment for past sins. Most of these would have been in previous lives.

What had I done wrong in my past lives? I have no idea. Yet, I have had a yearning for a scimitar (how strange for a Hindu); a keen preference for blue clothing until recently; and an inextinguishable instinct for working (almost fighting) for justice for the communities in which I have lived. Not long ago, a friend drew my attention to a blue-clad tribe of religious warriors bearing scimitars living somewhere in the Indian sub-continent. How would Destiny treat them in their future lives?

A clairvoyant who claimed to be guided by 'Past Masters' (healers) told me relatively recently about two of my past lives. Am I in a position to reject such messages? In one life, I was treated badly by my beggar parents. They had tied my legs together when I was a little child, so that they had atrophied. This had been done to attract alms. Would that explain why I love little babies, whose birth, fully formed, I consider miracles; why I weep for the horrendous plight of children of all ages born into starving communities or are being exploited as if they were dumb animals; and why I am driven to anger by those mothers who chose to deny their children the on-going contact, care and love of their natural fathers? I have had little children reach out to me in public places; I have read widely on this matter; and I have met and talked with many of the fathers denied meaningful contact with their children for no fault of their own.

Strangely, once I had been told about that past life, the pains in my legs disappeared for good. I had told no one about this pain.

The fragment of the other past life of mine that I was told about depicted a white man (me) tied by his neck to his legs, being dragged on his knees across desert sands by brown-skinned men on camels. The clairvoyant suggested to me that this might be why I am now born a brown fellow, destined to live among white men prejudiced against coloured people. The pain in my neck is worse, but I have never been in any doubt that skin colour and differences in culture and religion continue to matter in human relationships. For, in our greed for self-esteem through power and wealth, we tend to forget that we are all bonded by a shared creation.

Why did images of desert sands infiltrate the dreams of my youth? Why did I keep looking at maps of central Asia? Am I to return to that region? Yet, somewhere deep in my soul, I have intimations of having been a European, as well as a Middle Eastern Jew. My early communion with classical European music, and my total disinterest in touring Europe, does allow a past association as plausible. Strong attraction to postwar Jewish refugees, and some warm friendships with them, suggest another association. Indeed, when I sought some time ago to view a past life through a meditative process, in one scene I was surrounded by red sand, again! In another scene, I was looking out from a below-ground cell, through a grill above my head. Were these challenging yet explicable experiences scenes from my past lives?

I had been taught in childhood that my Destiny-driven path would provide me with opportunities to strengthen myself by overcoming adversity. I believe that to be true. I am now stronger spiritually, and therefore emotionally. I have since read that, whilst on this path, I could also seek to chart a future life. I sincerely hope so. For, now I know where I want to go, and what I want to be. Whether or not that life will involve more red desert sand, my hope is to build bridges across cultures. This is something I have already started to do with my other books, written under my birth name Arasa. The trigger for that writing was my psychic experience with the spirit of Ratna Uncle.

As said in the Upanishads:

"You are what your deep driving desire is

As your desire is, so is your will.

As your will is, so is your deed.

As your deed is, so is your destiny"

(Brihad.iv.4.5)

Somewhere deep in my psyche, on that cold morning of nothingness, I would have known that I would continue, in this present life, my search to discover who I am, against the totality of my past lives; to understand the significance of the brief drama of my current existence; and, hopefully, to appreciate what the Cosmos is all about. This hope might, however, take quite a few lifetimes; that is, until I am able to _Realise_ the _Self,_ which is the Reality called God.

In the meanwhile, at that kerbside, I would presumably come to recognise that I would soon have to deal with the reality of surviving my predicament. That might pose quite a problem. Clearly, my wife's strange decision had placed me in limbo. Could I then be neither insecure nor secure in the Maya of earthly existence, which is neither real nor unreal?

At that moment, at that kerbside, when time clearly stood still, I could (if asked) confirm that I had recovered my faith. I had recovered that faith in myself generated in babyhood and developed in boyhood. My faith in my cultural heritage would be as armour against onslaughts by the ignorant and arrogant. This would provide me with a stable core of values, with their communitarian focus and respect for authority. My Asian values would act as a bulwark, even as I began to straddle pragmatically my two operational cultures, the newer of which would extol the virtues of individualism. A faith in the value of learning, reflecting my insistent need to know from birth, and faith in working for justice wherever I find myself, would drive my life. The urge towards justice would reflect my father's core teaching and our colonial experience, as well as an intangible yet ineradicable instinct within me. A belief in a shared Creator does, of course, lead a sensitive person to a communitarian ethic.

Underpinned by that faith, I could, in conscience, make a commitment to offer compassion to others, especially my wife, and to do so with courage. I could seek to discover why my dear wife was suddenly disowning me, and in this fashion. If, as an English proverb has it, "The difference is wide that the sheets will not decide," where then would I place my feet, and which way should they point?

Were I to look ahead in time, I could expect my place in society (which I would feel in my bones to be in Australia) to be as a marginal man; that is, to be with, but incompletely of, any community in which I was placed by Destiny. That would be a gut, or intuitive, feeling.

This (were it to happen) would enable me to assess my society objectively. Being de-tribalised and re-located societally, I would naturally seek similarities between societies and cultures, rather than differences. I would also be able to foresee a desirable society and to work for the required change. This would necessarily involve challenging conventional wisdom. This I would carry out with discretion. I would also understand that the most realistic means of enabling a process of societal transformation to evolve is to cast the appropriate seeds widely. I would then leave it to the Cosmos to decide whether and when they would sprout, and what the seedlings would grow into. For, it is the Cosmos which controls all, probably through Gaia, that living Earth entity which sustains mankind.

Thus, each one of us will, in our respective domains, dance as deemed by Destiny. In this dance we would be accompanied by those Significant Others caught in that inter-twined web. Hopefully, we would also dance with dexterity; as well as with that equanimity based on faith that the dance has meaning.

So, on that cold morning, in the presence of the woman I loved, for whom I had put myself into more cosmic debt, and denied myself a good career amongst my own people, in a country which was terribly racist because it was unwilling to accept that people of all colours and cultures are equal in the eyes of our Creator, I, the rover in space-time (as only a Dragon can), stood still, as the universe stood still for me! One might well ask: "Quo Vadis?"; that is, whither goest thou?

### THE DANCE OF DESTINY

Part 2 OF HOLES WHICH WERE NOT THERE

Endorsements

Here is a unique picture of Australia over the past 60 years by one who is both an outsider and an insider. It provides a picture of this country that may be uncomfortable to the reader at times because it tells truths that they would rather not hear. It is written by a man who not only has a soul but is willing to share his spiritual insights with us. If you wish to understand Australia as it really is, you must read Raj!

Associate Prof. Dr Greg Melleuish, School of History and Politics, University of Wollongong

### Part 2 OF HOLES WHICH WERE NOT THERE

### Chapter 1

QUO VADIS (OR WHERE NOW)?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star;

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar.

\- William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Life is unpredictable. I already knew that. It is said that life cannot be planned. Yet, I know that it is within the means of mankind to draw up plans. These could vary from an aroma of action-thoughts, an itinerary of intention, to a draft of deeds to be done. As with a sojourn into the frighteningly frozen or watery wastes of Antarctica, anything can happen with little or no warning; and all that careful planning could be stood on its head, or laid flat into a bog. Whilst planning is in the power of man, executing it is in the hands of Heaven. My father's oft-uttered advice "Man proposes, God disposes" seems apt.

I had a plan. The plan had been initiated by my in-laws. I would rejoin my Anglo-Australian wife in Melbourne and commence a new life. This plan now seemed to have hit a baffling brick wall, a devastatingly unexpected barrier. Had I placed myself in limbo by returning to Australia?

Of course, this sequence of events is only how it is with life on Earth as we know it. In another part of the Cosmos or in another universe, the laws of chance or synchronicity or causality might be different. Thus, the consequence of the same events on my emotional balance might also be different. Destiny, as we experience it there, may thereby be less confusing.

So, like a man who had lived abstemiously dying suddenly of a cardiac arrest at sixty, whilst his neighbour drinks lots of whisky, chases women (possibly without catching any) and smokes like the historical chimney but remains healthy at ninety, one might have the wheels of the chariot or (more likely) the cart carrying one along the dirt track of life fall off for no foreseeable reason. This had happened to me, and thereby to my family. Of course, at any stage of life, one could experience mishaps which, whilst representing only flat tyres on that vehicle on that dirt track, might affect one's life chances drastically; especially if they recur repeatedly.

I had, however, had a major wheel-falling-off experience when my father died at age forty-seven, when I was only eighteen. An immigrant from Ceylon, he had barely survived the Japanese military occupation of Malaya. I was then more directly exposed to the unseen and unexpected darts of Destiny, operating through my time-hungry and ambitious mother.

Who were we? We are Tamils from Jaffna in the north of Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). Currently, we are a world-wide diaspora. Both my father and maternal grandfather had migrated to British Malaya early in the twentieth century because of job opportunities there. An adequate knowledge of the English language led to administrative jobs in a country which was being filled rapidly by workers, traders and business men from all over India, Ceylon, south China, and the surrounding Malay lands. The bulk of the people whose mother tongue is Tamil are now found mainly in the south of India.

The Tamils of Ceylon are claimed by a Malayan historian to have originated in the Deccan in central India and, having spent some time in what is now Bangladesh, finally settled in north and east Ceylon. The south of Ceylon was settled by the Singhalese, also from India, about two and a half thousand years ago. The Tamils seem to have been in Ceylon for a minimum of a thousand years. Some Tamils claim two thousand years. After all, in ancient times, only a river might have separated Ceylon from India. The sea has clearly risen in recent millennia. It would also have risen much earlier through the demise of the last ice age.

Whereas Singhala (the language of the southerners) is one of the Sanscrit-linked so-called Indo-European languages of India, Tamil is one of the four Dravidian languages. These are now found mainly in the south of the subcontinent. The pockets of Dravidian speakers in what is now Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran and North-West India, together with the strongly-asserted belief by many that the purest forms of Hinduism are now to be found in south India, raise the probability that the Dravidians had moved south from the north-west of India when the Muslim Mughals, other Central Asians, and peoples further west moved progressively and _en masse_ into the northern parts of what is now India. It has also been suggested that the peoples of the Indus Valley high-culture civilisation were part of this exodus when the river system which sustained them dried out.

The wonderful reality about the pundits of pre-history (that is, the times about which we know so little) is that nobody can be shown to be wrong, and everybody is potentially correct, about their theories as to what happened, and why. Now, not only the Indians but also other colonised or otherwise culturally oppressed peoples everywhere (eg the Africans), prefer to research their own histories as best they can. For, European colonisers are alleged to have re-interpreted world history in order to reinforce the claimed innate superiority of white peoples over coloured peoples; the inferiority of all faiths other than Christianity (with its great variety of brands); and the asserted longevity of their technological skills, in spite of massive borrowing from diverse Asian peoples, especially the Chinese.

Returning to the story of my family, we Ceylon Tamils, through chain migration, soon dominated Malaya's administration, especially in medicine, pharmacy, education, railways and the postal service. The Chinese immigrants went into trade or tin mining, in the main. The Indians went into trade, or indentured labour in the rubber estates. The other ethnic communities (then referred to as nationalities, in much the same way that all Asians were Asiatics to the British rulers) sought to fill any niche available, or to create one. The Malays, a charming and tolerant people, remained mainly on the land, ruled by their sultans. The latter were 'advised' by the British; that is, they did what they were told, or became replaced. On the west coast, the sultans' titles, clothing styles, and ornaments of authority reflected the historical influence of Indian cultures.

British entrepreneurs developed the land and the economy to suit Britain's export markets and import needs. Because Malaya was under-developed, they did not cause the kind of damage they perpetrated upon the established economies of India and Egypt. Fortunately for mankind, the British did not produce opium in Malaya. Their output in India was adequate to subvert the Chinese people.

Each ethnic community had its priests to provide guidance to their version of God or Heaven, although many Chinese seemed to restrict themselves to ancestor worship. They had little red boxes outside their homes at which they prayed, lit candles and burnt imitation money. These, surely, must have assisted many to eventual success. Perhaps, some of our ancestors develop into spirit guides. We all prayed with great devotion, as insecurity was the mainspring of our existence.

Education for the children was, as ever, the primary driver for all. The children who could get into English-language schools (as I did) were naturally advantaged in being able to acquire academic or professional qualifications. Families lived frugally in order to achieve the savings necessary to fund this education. Thus, everyone was skinny, like the survivors of the Great Depression in Australia. Most of us could have done with more nourishing food.

At the end of World War Two, overseas study became the pathway to enhanced security and lifestyles for the whole family. All betterment was for the family, not just for the individual. The so-called Asian values, much derided by those who had lost their tribal leaders and an operational sense of tribe, clan, and extended family – mainly in the immigrant-created new nations of the Western world – are upheld throughout Asia. They stress the primacy of community, not of the individual. This recognises that one is born into a collective, is sustained by the collective, then contributes to the collective in reciprocity, finally moving on to another collective in another domain. One is never apart from that ultimate collective, the Cosmos.

As the eldest of my family and the only son, I was to take the family into a secure future. As I topped my class every term (bar one) all through primary school, I should have had an easy ride through university and thus to a successful professional career. We had no reason to believe that Destiny could be as dastardly as it turned out to be. Then war came. The Japanese military occupation wore down my father's health. I was hungry for nearly three years and learnt to hate the Japs, as we referred to them. I also became staunchly anti-communist because of our wartime exposure to the thugs who called themselves 'The People's Anti-Japanese (something or other)'!

I did not do as well as I could have in the last year of high school because of repeated attacks of malaria. I was then not accepted by the Medical College in Singapore. Part of the reason might have been that I was socially immature. During the Occupation, I had no sense of friendship, family or community for most of the time, although I lived with three adult men and studied at a technical college. There, I was too young for my fellow students. In our tradition, children (that I was) were only seen but not heard. There was thus no basis for me to have casual conversations with my guardian and his friends. So I became a loner, battling the tribulations of life on my own; and probably not very well.

Thus, when my father died, my mother would not discuss anything with me. I later discovered that she did not even consult her three older brothers about our future. Instead, I was required to seek some guidance from a family friend. Regrettably, there was a tradition of petty competition within the community, manifest by the people looking back over their shoulder to see if anyone within the community, or even within the extended family, is about to overtake them or do better in life. My mother's step-brother's attempted intrusion into her decisions reflected this tradition. What a ridiculous people we were! This may be why the Cosmos decided to dispatch me to Australia.

Yet, we Tamils were normally a coherent expatriate community, faithfully carrying out our cultural traditions, and giving social support to one another, whilst preparing the next generation for economic betterment. In the evolving multicultural Malayan nation, initial mutual co-existence between the ethnic communities was giving way, through on-going contact between these communities, habituation (that is, becoming accustomed to living in close proximity to those of different cultures), education, and the adoption of English as the primary means of communication, to a more integrated people. This integration was aided by religious and related cultural tolerance. We prayed in our respective ways, without any priesthood claiming possession of a sole path to God. We prepared and ate our respective foods, and dressed in our customary styles. In time, there was a merger of cuisines and clothing styles, a blending of accents, a borrowing of words between the languages, and an increasing reliance on the common language, English. We also adopted modernisation and some westernisation. We did this even as we awaited the departure of our colonial overlord.

Our wartime experiences were not pleasant. Our attempts to avoid Japanese bombs; our fear of ground battles, which luckily we never saw, as our intended defenders seemed to be in permanent retreat; the lack of family income for about ten months after the Occupation; the anxiety of living under a military occupation known for its brutality in China; limited food, with little to no protein, fats or sugars; being held to ransom by communist Chinese thugs masquerading as the people's anti-Japanese warriors; these were all very stressful. My father was so affected that he was lucky to survive for nearly two years after the end of the Occupation.

By that time, I had lost my boyhood, my friends and my lifestyle. I was rushed through high school. Fifteen months after the end of the war, a prewar primary school graduate had matriculated, and was ready for university. Apart from the debilitation caused by a grossly inadequate wartime diet, I had been further weakened by bouts of malaria during my last year at school. Although my results could have been better, my parents saw no reason for me to repeat my last year. Time was money for my mother, much to my regret. My father was strangely compliant, much to my disappointment. My namesake at school did repeat that final year at school, topped the pass list for the whole country, and eventually became a professor in physics in Britain. Did this reflect a difference in parental attitudes or the role of Destiny?

In mid-year, my father died suddenly. I almost died the next month through that bone-crushing disease, dengue fever. I regretted my survival, for decades. Significantly, my recovery was triggered by what might have been a near death experience. At the depth of my sickness, I found myself floating near the ceiling, and looking down at two bodies in their respective beds below. One was that of my father, who had been successfully cremated, the other was mine. I remember being so scared that I broke into a great sweat. I recovered after that.

Following my inability to be accepted for medical studies in Singapore, a yogi told my mother and I that I would travel south early the next year. This sounded so improbable that I felt that my mother had not accepted it. Yet, early in the next year, I went south, and returned in four years, just as the yogi had said I would.

Returning to my next wheel-falling-off experience, my next disaster was when I defaulted on my university studies, for reasons I have yet to understand in full. The consequences were utterly tragic for me, but more so for my widowed mother and my younger sisters. My mother had to struggle for years financially without support from me; only the eldest of my three sisters had alleviated that burden to some extent. By our cultural tradition, it was my responsibility to look after my family and to place it on a secure financial footing. This was not to happen.

I was thereby to be viewed by our tribal community as a self-selected pariah, and by my extended family as a somewhat confusing and very disappointing fellow. It was not a pleasant experience to be abused by a close family friend on a crowded bus for my "disgraceful" conduct. I therefore suffered from severe guilt and unabating nightmares for decades. Yet, I was, on the surface, seen to be calm and confident, saying in a typically Hinduist fashion "what is, is" and "what must be will be." I had also said "to hell with you" to God for dropping me into very rough seas with no lifeboat or lifebelt. Had I not been the most regular supplicant at our little Ganesha (Pilleyar) temple? Had I not broken enough coconuts at the temple to qualify for some protection? Had I not studied as hard as I had prayed? I am not sure whether He/She had bothered to listen.

I had, of course, realised somewhat vaguely that there is such a thing as Destiny but did not understand what it meant, or how it worked. After all, one does not like to feel that there is little or no scope for free will. The obverse of that is, with free will, one must accept some responsibility for those adverse consequences arising from one's acts of volition. So, I accepted full responsibility for my downfall. A little later in life, however, I realised that it was my mother who had dumped me into Australia. As her first-born and only son, I had to concede that she may have subconsciously followed that Japanese adage, "Send abroad the child you love most." Yet, later, I blamed both my parents for not ensuring that I had the necessary preparation in secondary school, and was socially mature, before sending me to university, especially in a foreign country.

Requiring me to study medicine at one of the top universities of Australia, when I had never been in a science laboratory, because of the Japanese Occupation and the haste with which I had been rushed postwar through high school, was a clear recipe for disaster. My basal problem was my mother's inordinate ambition for me. For example, as a very young boy, I was taught to play the harmonium and to sing. I had a boy soprano voice, both clear and penetrating. I must have driven the neighbours batty. Since musicians in our culture are low in social status, what was she doing? I also seemed to be the only Ceylon Tamil boy in the country to be so developed. To what end?

Then, suddenly, the music was given away. I was now required to learn by heart some religious writing. It was in classical Tamil. We, however, spoke a colloquial form of the language. I therefore understood little of what I was required to remember. What was I to be now? A Hindu scholar, surely!

But, it was also clear that I was to become a doctor in the western tradition. Why? Because we were becoming westernised and modernised at a rapid rate of knots. I was also very successful at an English language school. Indeed, my understanding of what I read in English was excellent, whilst what I understood in classical Tamil was abysmal. Did those stories by Enid Blyton have an influence? I had spent only two years in vernacular school, between five and six years of age.

My mother foolishly thought that I was a genius, when I simply had a blotting paper memory. I did not study by learning and understanding until I was about twenty-four years of age. During the Occupation, when my father was transferred to a small village, I was left behind. I lived with three men, one a distant relative by marriage; we had a Chinese amah, who presumably had nowhere else to go. I attended the Technical College which produced technical assistants. They would be essential cogs in the infrastructure of the nation. Those who normally attended the college would have completed three years out of a four-year high school program. The other students at the College would therefore have been about three years older than I was.

To qualify for entry, I had to learn all manner of equations, within two months. I did this without an adequate understanding of what they represented. At fourteen, I joined the college. Because of the age difference, there was little scope for friendships or even communication. The 'clever kid' led a life of loneliness until the war ended.

The only leavening in his near-barren existence was access to the bookshelf in the home of distant relatives. The books belonged to a school teacher trained in Britain. They included classical writers such as Dickens, Austen and others. I was thereby exposed to the subtlety and beauty of an expressive language at an early age.

Because time was money, I was rushed through high school. Unfortunately for me, I was reasonably successful. My mother's ambition remained undiminished.

It was only near the end of my time on Earth that I began to understand that it was not all the fault of my parents; I began to appreciate how Destiny works. Like the prey which goes to the hunter when its time has come (as said in the Koran), what happened to me and my family apparently had to happen. How does this eventuate? And why? In any event, my mother's ambition certainly made her a most efficient agent of destruction, Destiny's instrument. What terrible things had we done in our past lives?

Worse still, what was to happen was seemingly written down somewhere, to be read by those appropriately equipped. What was to happen to me, and thus to my family, was actually foretold to my mother and me soon after my father's demise, but in an indirect and somewhat casual manner by a visiting yogi. But, his message or warning had not registered with us. Thus, we had to perform the dance of Destiny as laid out for us. So, why was he sent to alert us? After all, whilst beggars clothed in saffron robes, and sunyasins were commonplace, a yogi was rare. We had never met one before. It was not difficult identifying him as a yogi. What he said made no sense - then!

My present understanding of Destiny is that we are indeed marionettes, the puppet master being a set of circumstances set up by ourselves. That is, we have free will, exercised both autonomously and reactively. By our actions and thoughts, we set in train the Cosmic Law of Cause and Effect; that is, the Law of Cosmic Justice (or Karma, as the Hindus term it). We, in each life on Earth, carve out the banks and the rocky impediments through and over which will flow the river of our personal destiny in the next life, even as we obey the imperatives of Destiny in our current life. The latter would have been carved out in previous existences. Just as there are scientific laws which govern our physical lives, so there seem to be cosmic laws which govern our existence from birth to death, and thereafter.

Thus, in each life, I will paddle on the river of my personal Destiny. My trajectory will be within the walls of the canyon and over those rocky impediments I had carved out during my past life. As I paddle, relate to others, and respond to circumstances reflecting both the Law of Chance and the cosmic unavoidables (exercising what free will seems available), I will be carving out the framework for my next life, paying off my cosmic debt, and improving myself spiritually (if that is what I want). Seems reasonable, does it not? Thus, I reached the conclusion, as said by some guru, that karma, like shadows, follows one everywhere. I also felt that chance must have an independent role in the circumstances of my life.

So where is God in all this? All that is required from the one and only Creator is to set up the mechanisms underpinning our lives and relationships, let them _evolve_ as appropriate, and allow us to choose our own path and bed. In some circumstances, He/She might choose to intervene in our lives. But then, why not leave that work to the higher beings in the spirit world? They certainly seem to have been active in my life. Indeed, I can testify that I have received the odd message – and in a timely manner!

In so doing, were my spirit guides acting on their own? Or, were they only instruments of Destiny? If the latter, were they guiding me to optimise the opportunities available in my path of Destiny to improve my life-chances in both my current and future lives? Or, were they acting at the behest of God, who had chosen to intervene in my life?

How cosmic laws affect us after death, whether one meets God and one's spirit guides; and, if so, where, is something which (presumably) one finds out only then. We certainly do not remember such experiences, any more than we can remember our past lives. Strangely, my attempted glimpses into my past lives, through auto-hypnosis, had displayed a strange consistency with the presentation of a couple of my alleged past lives by a respected clairvoyant healer. When a significant experience is both confounding and inexplicable, why not simply accept it tentatively, I asked myself.

So, there I was at the kerbside of the modest double-fronted weatherboard and tile roofed home of my Australian in-laws. I had travelled by a small and slow boat from Singapore to Fremantle, and then by an even slower train across the desertified Nullarbor Plain, to Adelaide and thence to Melbourne. Looking forward to a new life in a country which was not a foreign country, and to be with my wife, as well as to set foot on whatever career path might be achievable, I had enjoyed the trip.

On board, I had learnt a great deal from an English ex-national serviceman, and two French ex-national servicemen. The former had served safely in Malaya, with many a night spent in the arms of a Malay girl in the neighbouring kampong; whereas the latter had been in a war zone in Algeria, with no comforting arms available. A fellow passenger in second class was a sad former military policeman in the Australian army, who was not allowed to bring his Japanese wife into the country, even in the early 1950s. In the meanwhile, he had lived in Japan in peace and harmony.

Yet, Australia had become an immigrant-seeking nation after World War Two. It had initially taken in non-English speaking 'beautiful Balts' and other war-displaced persons, followed by immigrants from Ukraine, the Netherlands, and other parts of Europe. With rare exceptions like me, Asians were not welcome.

Indeed, the first Australian Minister of Immigration had, in the early postwar years, earned Australia a terrible reputation. He had implemented the White Australia policy most vigorously, once claiming in Parliament that two Wongs do not make a white! The policy had very sharp teeth indeed. The Minister began by throwing out the coloured people who had received wartime protection. Included in the enforced departures was a Philippino who had served in Australia in the US armed forces. It was when the Minister tried so assiduously to throw out an Ambonese (Indonesian) woman, Mrs O'Keefe, with an Anglo-Australian husband, her Australian-born baby sired by said husband, as well as her other children, that he got his come-uppance.

The High Court found his actions illegal. Yet, he was believed to be busy collecting European Roman Catholics as fast as he could. Had he forgotten that the Ambonese lady was also a Roman Catholic? As their immediate neighbour for a few months, I knew this family well. They were a very nice family. Mrs. O'Keefe was a beautiful dancer, once displaying her skill with the 'Charlston,'

I have read that this Minister was anti-British. This was not surprising, as religion-related tribalism was indeed a significant characteristic of Australia then.

I came to know the O'Keefes when, during my second summer in Australia, two of my Malayan friends and I had rented half a house next the O'Keefe home. It was there that we observed suburbia. Our landlord's family had a cocky (cockatoo) which greeted all who entered by the back gate in the traditional manner. It said "Hello, Cocky!" As the front door opened onto the beach, it was rarely used. Were we to leave the gate open, the cocky would shriek "Shut the bloody gate," a phrase popular with our landlady. We saw horse-drawn deliveries of ice blocks, placed in a meat-safe with hessian sides. We saw milk delivered to each door, poured into receptacles provided by the resident. We saw the bread carter. Indeed, we felt quite at home.

We also learnt that the birth rate in this outer city suburb was high because the train woke up the adults at an 'ungodly hour.' The young adults had little to do at that hour, we were told. The name of the suburb was Bonbeach; how apt!

It was at this beach that we saw a (white) woman who was mahogany coloured by the sun. She was slim and fit looking, but old; she looked about forty. It was also at this beach that a retiree with a huge pot, which felt like rock, challenged my friends and I to exercise with him and his medicine ball (weighing 14 lbs) every morning during the summer. Were we toughened up! With lots of steak and milk, I became quite strong.

I remember going fishing before dawn with my landlord and his mate. I caught the only fish available, a baby shark. Since its mother might be looking for it, I remember suggesting that we head for home; and that I preferred to get my fish at the fishmonger! It was clear to me that the ordinary Aussie, whilst not well off, had a good life.

During the next year or so, in the more salubrious homes, I observed the family and a few friends gathering around a piano or pianola and singing. It was all very informal and warming. I remember being intrigued by the pianola, which read music through the holes punched into a roll of paper; all that the players had to do was to pump away with their feet.

Moving forward, my acceptance of the offer of re-settlement in Australia, obtained through my in-laws, scuttled any chance of a future career in Singapore. Precipitately withdrawing from a much-valued training course for Inspectors in the Police Force meant closing the door somewhat rudely. At the end of six months in camp, I would have been a full-fledged inspector. Since I was married, I would have a home and a car provided by the government. I had apparently been one of twenty eight selected from a field of about four hundred applicants, of whom more than a quarter were said to have been of suitable calibre. I also had very strong and useful contacts with the leadership of the Arab, Indian and Ceylonese communities. As well, my charming Chinese landlady was a sergeant in the Force.

I had been told that, within three years, I could expect to be promoted to Senior Inspector. When the British left, I could seek promotion to Assistant Superintendent, a position then available only to white men. Subsequently I could aspire to even higher levels of responsibility. We Asians were on the verge of coming into our own. I had left all that to be with my beloved wife. But, had I made that decision all by myself; that is, without any input from the spirit world? Earlier, I had been advised by the chief of the Immigration office in Melbourne that young Australian women did not like living away from their mothers; therefore my wife might not agree to settle overseas.

In any event, I hoped to return to university. But I had no inkling that graduate employment commensurate with my qualifications, aptitude and personality would be difficult, if not impossible, for me to achieve in my new home; or that I would experience some racist behaviour; be also substantially disadvantaged by some favouritism shown to those who shared an ethno-religious heritage; or be rejected from senior executive positions because of my "cultural background."

What happened at the cold kerbside on the mid-winter morning of my arrival nullified the relevance of such issues. My dear wife, with whom I had had a great life up to only a few weeks before, met me as I paid off my taxi. Without preamble, she said that, having brought me back to where she had met me, she did not want me anymore! What a greeting that was! I was stunned, amazed. How was I to respond? What would happen to me now?

Well, the wheels on my donkey-cart (me being the donkey) had fallen off again. I could not go back to Singapore. I was not wanted in Australia. My wife was quite cold and calm in her demeanour. What now? Strangely, I too was calm. Whilst the core of my existence had just been scuppered, some part of me was observing the scary (and silly) situation. As with the previous disasters, I was frozen in my emotions. Yet, physically and societally I was truly in limbo-land. I do not remember saying anything, with my small suitcase on the nature strip. What a tableau that was – a cool grassy green verge, on which stood a white Anglo-Aussie wife with a cold voice and her coloured Asian husband with his heart and mind suddenly snap-frozen. It was indeed a strange feeling, seeing the tableau clearly, but feeling nothing!

Then my mother in-law came out and invited me in. I went in, and all hell broke loose. My wife raved and ranted. There was not much that her mother or I could say without adding fuel to the fire which clearly raged within her. Had that earlier cold voice been only a façade? What was her problem? Some time later, I found a room at the YMCA, wondering what I was going to do.

What had happened was that my wife had lost her temper yet once more. It was only in Singapore that she had displayed this tendency to me. From time to time, she would rush across the room in the middle of what was to me an ordinary discussion, and scratch my face with both hands, screaming with sudden anger. It was impossible to prevent the scratches, as I was always taken unawares. After a while, I would put my arms around her, hug her, and thereby pacify her. For, it would have been unproductive and futile to respond aggressively. I guess I was stunned at such behaviour. In my family, problems were solved through dialogue. Culturally, there has to be respect for inter-personal physical space, although children might be smacked or beaten.

Neither our friends, nor our landlady and follow tenants, nor my students and fellow teachers had said anything about my scratched face. Neither did my step-grandmother from Sri Lanka and my senior uncle from up-country Malaya, when they dropped in together to see us without warning late one afternoon. We were dressed to go out, and I was wearing a fresh decoration on my face.

The scratching would occur in Australia too for a year or so after our reconciliation. When my workmates asked, I would blame the cat. I think they guessed what kind of cat was responsible. My friends in Singapore had, however, been tactfully silent. Their attitude might reflect that sensible perspective that when the frog flies into a temper, the pond need pay no attention (as someone said). What was strange was that my wife never apologised and I did not refer to her outbursts – ever. It has since been suggested to me that some of us are destined to attract those who need our help. In time, my wife did stop her outbursts. And from time to time, later in life, I would think cynically of those single-mother feminists who deny, ever so forcefully, the prevalence of female violence.

The question in my mind was – what triggered those outbursts? After some years of study of psychology, I came to understand that my wife had been in ideologically and emotionally conflicting circumstances. To love and marry an Asian, and thereby to expect an interesting and comfortable life was one thing. To then discover that he came from an impoverished family who could do no more for him (or themselves) financially was another. But then my mother-in-law did admit to me that her one and only child had always displayed an inability to control any frustrations arising from unmet expectations, whether the latter were reasonable or otherwise. Yet, my wife was normally cheerful, chatty and loveable, a great raconteur and conversationalist, who gave me great joy during our time together; well, most of the time!

Strangely, our relationship had begun during my days of failure in Melbourne. This relationship had grown from an initial casual friendship when she had visited me to see why she had not heard from me for some time. She found me in bed. I had been bleeding for a few days following an operation on my nose. In my state of despair after my academic disaster, I had simply stayed in bed. She rushed me to her home where her mother looked after me. Following my recovery, I returned to my room.

A serious romantic relationship developed. It was wonderful to be loved, to feel I belonged to someone who cared for me, after years of an isolated existence. We decided to elope. We had a couple of joyful weeks together. Then officialdom caught up with me. I left, most optimistically, to an uncertain future.

But, my stay with my mother and my two younger sisters was weird. Nothing was said, nothing happened. Why had my mother wanted me back – and just then? Fed up with the lack of action, my wife joined me at my mother's home. After a couple of weeks, my wife had a major fallout with my mother and the older sister. My wife and I then left. We had to.

In Singapore, we earned enough to live on. Our life was most interesting. We were literally adopted by a young Indian couple, who had a lovely young son of about four. Later, I was to name my first son after him, in memory of our great friends. Surrounding us were a number of very wealthy men. The intent of some of the men was obvious; a young white lass who, because of her chatty extrovert Australian personality, might have been seen as ready for the picking. I believe that this multi-ethnic group of intending marauders sought to cuckold me. As they say in the classics, "tough titties"! For them, no end was physically in sight.

My wife left for home in Australia when I was about to join my training camp. Australia's security people then casually inserted themselves into my life. Their report must have been favourable, as I was soon permitted to rejoin my wife in Australia. The receipt of this information then took me on the road to re-settlement. The higher beings and my spirit guides must have been greatly gratified at their success. But could they not have smoothed the rough track on which they placed me?

Lo and behold, on the night of my arrival, my wife appeared at the door of my YMCA room. Being back at the YMCA that morning had allowed me to recollect my first arrival in Melbourne. The shared shower-room, where the display of large genitals was a worry; the cafeteria service; the nature and quality of the food which was tasteless to me; the Aussie accent; and gruff voices, the reason for which I began to understand soon, were somewhat different from my experiences on board that little ship that had landed me in Sydney in the late 1940s. I had realised then that I would have to make quite a few adjustments to my unformed expectations about the behaviour of those I had not associated with a colonial mentality.

Anyway, my wife's tentative approach was most welcome. Someone up there had taken pity on me. The reunion was initially somewhat subdued, as we were both overwhelmed by the drama of that morning. Nevertheless, it was a joyous reconciliation. I thanked God and my spirit guides for that.

The next day, we returned to the family home. I then discovered somewhat despondently that I had been damaged subconsciously by my experience the previous morning. An arm would twitch uncontrollably as I was falling asleep. Recognising this, my wife became most solicitous. Yet I felt terribly insecure. The shock of being in limbo-land had indeed penetrated my psyche. Worse still, I could not tell my family or our friends in Singapore of my plight. They might have simply sneered at me for my undiminished folly, not knowing what the spirit world had already decided.

It is said that wise men learn from the mistake of others; but fools must learn from their own. I therefore decided that I had to graduate as soon as possible. In the meanwhile, I kept my clothes, my only possessions, in my suitcase under our bed. I could not be sure whether my wife might disown me again. My mother-in-law did, I believe, understand my predicament.

She was a fantastic lady. She mothered me, calling me Mr Kfoops, whoever he was. She did our laundry and cooked our meals. When I came home tired, after 9 pm, and disinterested in dinner, she made sure that my dinner was tempting. She knew that I would be awake for part of the night on most nights of the week, studying until 2 am to 5 am. Perhaps I was the son she had not produced. Or, more prosaically, was she simply pleased that her dear daughter had someone who might offer her the stability she needed?

I did endeavour to reciprocate her kindness in small ways. On some Sunday mornings, when she would listen to country and western music on her kitchen radio, I beat the mix for home-made ice cream. When required, I helped to perm her hair. For a fellow who had taken to European classical music in the manner of a cat to a tub of cream, and whose wife preferred to sing operatic arias, it was fascinating to observe my mother-in-law enjoying a singer wailing about his dog, his horse or his mum.

Yet, my father-in-law never forgave me for having eloped with his precious daughter. He never spoke to me, even as we ate together at weekends in all the years my wife and I lived in the family home. His forgiveness would have led to greater pleasure to all. I was never at home at dinner time on weekdays because of my studies.

A new and challenging lifestyle was in the offing. Yet a new concern arose from my insecurity. It was whether Australian employers would grant me equal opportunity; whether Australia had changed for the better in terms of racial tolerance; and what changes I would need to make to my expectations. It was going to be a different sort of life from that of a student, or the potentially good life I had left behind with my own people. However, it would seem that I was meant to remain in Australia. I was not told that until after my retirement.

Was this part of the Destiny I had carved out? How could that be? Do the higher beings in the spirit world then have a significant role in shaping earthly affairs?

In retirement, after I had read about the physicists' view of the Cosmos, and about what the great religions had to say to explain the Cosmos (if at all) and about what one might refer to as Reality, I decided to investigate psychic phenomena. I consulted a few clairvoyants who had a sound track record, based upon the experiences of friends I trusted. In one momentous session, the spirit of the uncle I respected most appeared and then, during a three-way exchange, said that "they" had had a difficult time getting me to Australia. Well! I was flabbergasted.

My uncle had been dispatched to talk to me, according to the clairvoyant, by "higher beings". They had decided that he was the one I was "most likely to accept." They certainly knew that I am a very rational, pragmatic fellow. As it was, it took me about two years of profound thinking, wide reading and some serious consultations to accept that experience; and to then set out to carry out the advice given to me

Why did I have difficulty in accepting that experience? In our tradition, we dispatch the soul of our beloved with lengthy and meaningful ceremonies. Twice I had said to the sun, with a gesture of prayer, that I had done everything necessary to farewell the soul of my father, and subsequently my mother, to their destination. I had never heard or read about a soul returning to offer advice.

It should not have surprised me that it was my senior uncle, and not my father, whose spirit had come to offer me guidance. Why? My reading of anthropological studies of simpler or early societies showed that it was the maternal uncle who had the cultural responsibility for taking a youth in such a society to manhood.

Looking back, I feel rewarded by that most significant experience. It was yet strange that my uncle's presentation to the clairvoyant, who communicated with him with his mind, was in the clothing style for which he was well known.

It was only after this significant event that I wondered how the spirit of one who had 'passed over' could appear clothed. Other questions I should have asked were: Where was he situated – on that planet of Sirius whose fish-tailed beings are alleged by some to have introduced civilisation to us Earthlings, and to which our spirits are said to go? Or, was he in another dimension? Would he be privileged to know that? How did he spend his time? Or, was the concept of time as we know it irrelevant to him and fellow spirits? Did the higher beings mentioned by the clairvoyant to me reside in the same environment as my uncle? Why hadn't I asked my uncle these questions?

That yogi who had held my hand and looked into my eyes soon after my father's demise, and before I left home to study, had said clearly that I would move south early the next year. Ridiculous as it sounded then, that was what happened. I had also returned at the time forecast by him.

The intervening period had been an absolute disaster. Somehow, aided by cosmic influences no doubt, I had lost myself. Since what had been laid out had to occur, why did the yogi come to us? I still remember that, when he looked into my eyes and described my nature or personality and my past, I had the feeling that he was looking into my soul. He may have tried to alert to me that failure awaited me, and to accept it. However, I was too immature to notice. My mother was too ambitious to recognise any such warning. Yet, the yogi may have implanted in her the idea of sending me in a direction which had not generally been considered before by anyone that we knew or heard of. Since other students from south and south east Asia also went south suddenly, was the Cosmos beginning to link Australia to Asia? Since the Australian continent is moving gradually to merge with Asia, perhaps it was time for Asians to enter Australia and to influence its values.

My presence in my mother's home the month I returned had also been clairvoyantly seen by a stranger she had consulted for his occasional reading of the void of the future. Is the future then all laid out? Strangely, it does seem to be. If not, how could a skilled clairvoyant see what is to happen years ahead? When I was sixty-five, I was told that I was seen addressing a group of young people. I forgot about that until about 12 years later, although I have an audio-tape of my meeting with that clairvoyant. Then, I did give a talk to a goodly number of first year students in Australian history about the culture shocks caused by the arrival of young Asian students in Australia. The young people we Asians met were the age cohorts of their grandparents at that time.

My mother's clairvoyant contact arrived unannounced whilst I was with her, saying "I knew that I would meet you here this month." He was then kind enough to warn me that I would have a difficult life. Thus, as foreseen by that yogi, I had been in Australia and I had gone back home a failure. I had now come back to Australia, consistent with that yogi's words that I would spend a lot of time overseas. My wife had wanted me back, and yet had not wanted me the morning I returned. Her life was not what she had hoped it would be. Neither was mine. But we were now together on the path to betterment. Is not hope as cheap as despair?

I am forced to accept that I was meant to be in Australia. What the hell for? Why all that suffering and that uncertainty? What would I learn from ongoing insecurity? Whilst the near-rejection on that winter's morning was not a wheels-falling-off experience, I realised that it could have been. No it was only a flat-tyre experience. I had fallen into a hole that was not there. And I had climbed out of it with the help of my mother-in-law and possibly our spirit guides. But, the psychic and emotional consequences would be debilitating and long-lasting.

More importantly, how would Australia gain from my presence? The thought was preposterous. What could I, as an individual, do to change Australia and its relations with Asians? Was I the vanguard of needed change in what may become the nation of the future? For I had learnt to like the Anglo-Australians and their fair-go ethos, even if it did not then include coloured people; that is, the Aborigines and the Asians. I felt that, by joining the Family of Man through becoming colour-blind, Australia could set an example for its neighbours (all developing nations) about egalitarianism, equal opportunity, and a greater personal dignity for the non-gender-specific Common Man.

There is therefore a need for me to review my past stay in Australia and to look for a pattern of significance, if such exists. To do that, I would need to remember the Australia that I had left only a year earlier. It was then very clearly a nation for white people only, with a vicious racist immigration entry policy.

The White Australia policy, and the retinal after-glow of the military supremacy of white people over coloured people everywhere for a few centuries, had resulted in the ordinary Australian being disdainful of Asians. In his comfort zone in which every British white man was equal to every other British white man, a typical Australian could, whether uneducated, unskilled or otherwise, not only look down at coloured people, but also insult them freely.

In this milieu, every true-blue Australian man was neither coloured nor European; his women knew their place. The great civilisations of Asia meant nothing to him. Christ his Saviour, was known to hold the only key to the locks of the canals to Heaven. Whilst white European immigrants had been given entry only a few years before, the Japanese wife in a durable marriage had been denied entry. The husband, my fellow passenger on that slow boat, was a returned Australian serviceman.

Yet, through Ministerial discretion, I had been granted entry. This suggested that, in time, Australia might become more tolerant of ethno-cultural difference, and be seen by its Asian neighbours as fellow citizens of the Cosmos.

### Chapter 2

MEMORIES OF WHITE AUSTRALIA

Oh! the good times when

we were so unhappy

\- Alexandre Dumas (1803-1870)

During my last year in high school, I had studied the geography of Australia. That was because the curriculum for a colonial territory was that followed in Britain. It clearly set out to produce educated youth. So, we had English, maths, science, history and geography as compulsory subjects – and it made good sense to me.

Australia came across as a somewhat weird country in its aridity, barren-ness, the ways of its people, and its prejudices. In contrast, we lived in a lush country, where the sky was not always clear and blue, as in much of Australia, and where the jungle would quietly recover that which it had previously lost to Man. It was humid, with a 100cm (four inches) downpour possible in any hour. The two typhoons seasons were predictable. We were ethnically diverse, led by our respective tribal leaders. We were not controlled by any priesthood. We were surrounded by people who were different visually, verbally and operationally, but were on the same road spiritually; but on separate but adjoining tracks on this road. There was little evidence of religious or cultural intolerance amongst the mixed population.

Australia's treatment of its indigenes did not, of course, surprise us. After all, we had people my elders referred to as upstarts from Britain lording it over us, hadn't we? And, did not commoners from Great Britain throw their weight about in a most snooty manner? Did they not realise that their accents gave away their educational and class status back home? And had we not seen films depicting white Americans killing the indigenous Red Indian people? Casting the latter as the aggressors did not fool us. Our lands too had been expropriated by white men.

Before I left home, I read Henry Handel Richardson quite by chance, who gave me some insights into the Australian people and their lives. The author, however, turned out to be female. Did this indicate something about the nation's cultural values?

My other exposures to matters Australian then were through my high school principal, and a Church of England priest from Australia. The principal had been described as a tough colonial Australian. But, in the few minutes I spent with him after his relatively recent sojourn at Changi prisoner-of-war camp as an unwilling guest of the Japanese military, I found him a courteous, fair, and decisive man. The priest's most significant contribution to my understanding of Australians was that everything in Australia was the biggest in the southern hemisphere. Whilst that was interesting, I wasn't sure how useful that knowledge might be to me. Did Australians claim their geese to be swans?

I had learnt nothing about Australia from the troops sent to prewar Malaya to protect Britain's interests there, albeit inadequately, except that they seemed to be nice and friendly fellows. Yet, sixty-six years later, in the first decade of the third millennium, an acquaintance of mine stopped talking to me because of what I had written about these Australian troops. She would not accept that the Australians and British had been forced to retreat in the face of superior tactics by the invading Japanese.

The first Australian I saw on _terra firma ( terra nullius_ to the British invader of yore), was a big bloke, as they say in the vernacular. He was leaning against a shed on the wharf at Cairns, our first port of call, rolling a cigarette. I learnt many things cultural that morning. That bloke was allegedly a typical Australian worker. He was on a wharf. So, where were the others? "On smoko", I was told by an Australian on board. "Ah," I thought "it must be a great life being a worker in Australia." Time proved that to be true.

Rolling a smoke was both an economic necessity and a social convenience. I subsequently found little 'dicky' machines which rolled a slim cigarette from thin cigarette paper and wisps of tinned tobacco. Even in the 1960s, my sister-in-law used one of these 'gizmos', but then she was inclined to be somewhat unconventional.

Sydney, where I landed, was an attractive city. On my first night there, I met a Chinese businessman, an ABC; that is, an Australian Born Chinese (his term). During a bland dinner at a Chinese restaurant, I was told that the Chinese, facing racial discrimination, in spite of being second or third generation Australian, kept to the business sector. Catering for white Aussies, whose taste-buds were to remain under-developed for another generation, led to the food in Chinese restaurants lacking the authentic quality found in Malaya. Sacred sites, that is, the seats of power or influence, were informally restricted to white British Aussies. Indeed, for a few decades thereafter, Australia remained Britain's back yard.

I remember the Big Dipper in Luna Park in Sydney. It was just as well that I had a cast-iron gut, because two of us rode it after that dinner! The girls around us behaved like tom-boys. We Malayans were more used to demure young lasses. Naturally, we found the Aussie girls most enticing, but beyond reach. That might have been because we were shy and inexperienced in chatting up unaccompanied girls.

Then, to Melbourne by train. What a country! We had to change trains midway! The gauges of the train tracks were not compatible. That heritage, of separate state or regional nations within the continental nation, would continue long past its date of obsolescence.

In Melbourne, I found a room at the YMCA, across the bridge from that splendid Flinders Street railway station. I had arrived at the interstate station, Spencer Street, which looked as worn and tired as I was. From my room, I could see a dance hall. I think it was called the Trocadero. Sailors were seen to meet or pick up girls outside the building, and to indulge in an occasional 'biffo' with men whose testosterone levels too were high. Outside Flinders Street station was a pie cart late at night. For a young man who had not forgotten his on-going hunger as a teenager living under the Japanese military occupation of Malaya, this was a godsend. What a meal! A pie covered in gravy, with boiled green peas (the popular Australian version) sloshing around the plate; who cared! It was warming and filling food. The lack of chili and other condiments was a problem. It would continue to be a problem from time to time.

But, it was the people who fascinated me. Obviously, the trains and trams, with buses running across the tram routes, were frequent and reliable. People, all of whom wore hats, rushed from railway station to work and vice versa; indeed, they nearly trotted. Others clambered onto the trams and buses for short trips. I learnt to keep out of the stampede. Most of the rush were well built, in spite of wartime rationing. But, it was the lean fellows, tall stringy-bark, who took my eye. I was told that these had grown up food-deprived as youth during the Great Depression in the early 1930s, and who had worked hard physically. It seemed to me that it was the war that had saved the Australian people economically.

There were no coloured people visible. I must have stood out like a sore thumb to the more chauvinistic local. What I found intriguing was the variety of accents, reflecting differences in class, which did not exist in practice; that is, in terms of equality of opportunity, and in the personal confidence displayed by the mass of people working with their hands or in less-skilled jobs. What a difference from my background. Even in the fast developing nations of Asia, class and associated income differentials are vast. Democracy of the Western kind in Asia does not entail much equality of opportunity or treatment. The spoils go to the victor, the cunning, the skilled, the hard working, the networked, or some combination of these attributes.

Australia did look like a good place for the common man, even then. Regretfully, he had been conditioned to be racist, by time and tide.

Few Asian students had come to Australia to study at that time. Hence, there were no support structures or mechanisms to assist those of us who turned up, as there was in Britain, the traditional training ground for students from British colonial territories. My university had no idea whether a student attended lectures or participated in practical work. If one had difficulties with one's study, I suppose that a tutor could be approached. But I was not used to approaching authority figures. We Asians were thus effectively very much on our own. We had to find our way about, learn about the idiosyncrasies of the locals (people everywhere have their distinct social or cultural idiosyncrasies) and understand both the Australian accent and the prevailing colloquialisms.

We also had to put up with some looks of suspicion, or clear disdain, and much rudeness. The looks of wariness seemed to say "Do you bite?" I still get that look from some of the retirees who appear to have come off the land. Their eyes say more than their mouths, which are closed very tight! The disdain in the early days was generally displayed through serving us last in the shops, rejecting an adjacent vacant seat on public transport, or the way they spoke to us. The rudeness was more direct. "Why don't you go back to where you came from?" was not uncommon.

The words 'black bastard' addressed to me quite frequently were surprising, as I was very lightly coloured then. I had had little exposure to the sun until I reached Australia, where I sought the sun to warm me at times. It was all rather disconcerting, given our background of ethnic (racial) and religious tolerance. After all, the countries we came from – Malaya (which then included Singapore), India and Ceylon, in the main, – were mixtures of ethnic tribes, with their distinct languages, religions and cultural practices. Mutual acceptance or tolerance in these countries was comparable to the way in which Irish Roman Catholics and Protestant Anglos lived together in Australia.

The ethnic and cultural tolerance in the Asian source countries has to be emphasised, because certain media people in Australia seem to need to see conflict and stress where there is none. This happens even now, when Australia is reliant on its Asian neighbours for its economic survival. Worse still, in order to defend the prolonged maltreatment of the Aborigines, stories about ethnic conflict in Asian nations are propagated from time to time in a somewhat sneaky manner. This is to suggest that racial intolerance rules there too.

I have acquaintances who have made such a claim in what seemed to me to be a form of defensive counter-attack. This response can be triggered by a single statement about the ongoing plight of the Australian indigenes. Could we Asians convince racist Australians ruled by Rome that we do have any priesthood controlling us? Could we tell an expatriate Englishman that the caste distinctions of the Hindus have been seen to be comparable to the class distinctions of Britain? Would a white racist accept that the odd riot in some Asian countries was political? Since a racist is usually an ignorant fellow, what would be the use of an attempted dialogue?

The initial contact between the Asian students and the Australians we dealt with was evidently not between equals. I do believe that the Anglo-Australian man-in-the-street did not like the sudden and relatively large influx of fee-paying Asian students in the late 1940s. Was that because we were too well dressed, too well spoken, too well behaved, and projected ourselves as very confident? I say this because, for many years, the national broadcaster's tv-channel did portray the Australian indigene in the worst possible light – in speech and looks. They were flagrantly biased presentations.

It needs to be said here that the Chinese, Jewish and continental European Australians accepted us freely. They clearly respected our cultural heritage. Some of these Europeans even displayed some knowledge about our histories, cultures and religions.

Furthermore, until relatively recent times, a prominent publication had persistently spread racist views, quite in tune with the flavour of a supremacist whiter-than-white Australia. Even in the decade of the noughties of the twenty-first century, one hears in public such statements as "The Indonesians will invade us one day" (presumably when they learn to walk on water); "I don't want Muslims in my country"; "You can't trust the Chinese; they are racist"; and so on. Thus, it was not surprising that the Anglo-Aussies were not exactly enchanted when large numbers of self-titled refugees, but including many genuine ones, came in from various countries from the mid-1970s on. Sudden arrivals in goodly numbers of significantly different people, in appearance, behaviour and values, naturally bother the natives in any country; in this case, the white Aussie.

The Indians (including the Ceylonese) and the Chinese are, on the other hand, by both family and ancestral tradition, quite convinced that their cultures and religions are superior to that of the white man, since their respective civilisations are known to extend back at least five thousand years. A young Chinese Malayan student actually said so in a report to his fellow students way back in 1949. What he said was that his ancestors had been civilised for more than five thousand years, "long before the white man came down from the trees." I can vouch for the fact that this is what he wrote. This is what we had all been taught too.

Oh, we Asian are a superior lot and we know it too. We are therefore comfortable enough within our skins to ignore the manifestations, however irritating, of the imagined superiority of any Anglo-Australian or other white people, as we had been of the claimed superiority of British colonial officials, traders, planters and military men. How apt was that English adage "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me." After all, throughout the world, white people are only a minority, about fifteen percent of the world's population. This percentage is expected to fall to ten percent by mid-century. Most importantly, military and technical superiority can be overcome, as shown by the black pyjama-wearing Vietnamese fighters seeking independence from white colonisers.

Many Aussies did tend, in those early days, to view with some suspicion the well-dressed, well-spoken Asians among them. Were we expected to cower with respect to the people into whose land we had entered, if only to study? These Aussies, it seemed to me, were inordinately aware of the historical record of Europeans dominating, through the relative advantage of their weaponry, coloured people everywhere for a few centuries. They were also imbued with the ethos of the White Australia policy, which had formalised the tradition of preference for white British immigrants. Not even white Europeans were generally acceptable until the late 1940s. Such Aussies were also conditioned by repeated references by certain politicians and the media to the allegedly ever-threatening 'yellow hordes' to the north. As well, they were also smugly blinded by their clergy to the on-going viability and historical durability of the mysticism and complexity of the major Asian religions.

I was therefore occasionally asked what ship I was 'off', in spite of my expensive and stylish clothing. I think my enquirers expected me to carry a live fowl in that ubiquitous string bag which one took to market. This is what Indian lascars (sailors) were seen to do on Melbourne's western city streets.

In this context, I do remember Tom, my 100% Irish room-mate from India. Confusingly, he offered a pink complexion with an Indian accent. One midday, when a matronly female shopper tried to get off the tram, she found her string bag full of her shopping buttoned to Tom's trousers. In the days before the zipper became popular, Tom had looked down and noticed that his fly had not been fully buttoned up. He had not seen, in the crush around him, a strand of the bag he had captured. A boring tram trip was thus enlivened for us all, with the prospect of shy Tom being taken off the tram by his slacks by a large and irate female shopper.

Everywhere we went, we were asked some strange questions. Do we sit on furniture? What sort of houses do we live in? Why do we need to add curry powder and other spices to our food? Is that to cover the stench of rotting meat? This was known to us as a European practice. Why do you eat with your hands, or (to the Chinese) why do you continue with chopsticks? Do Hindus actually pray to rocks and trees? Why do you (the Chinese) offer prayers to your ancestors? Would you consider conversion to Christianity to save your souls? When do you expect to be able to govern yourselves? Why do you pay so much respect to your tribal leaders, as well as the yogis, gurus and other religious leaders?

Such questions led us to wonder about the education of children in Australia. Had they focused purely on the battles, great and trivial, of Britain? Did they know no more than the exploits of sundry princelings such as dukes, earls and lords in the British Isles, and of the colonial exploits of British merchants? Presumably, Australian school children had been taught, as had children in Britain, that the British had taken over much of the world (identified by the pink bits on the map of the globe) in order to teach the natives (Oh, how they loved that word) to govern themselves.

The Aussie students, were, however, full of the exploits of British settlers (including the squatters) and the explorers. In conversation, there was no mention of any assistance given to the explorers by the indigene in showing them the way, or negotiating passage through the lands of the various tribes. The clearing of the land (of unwanted savages) through killing was not mentioned. The shooting, the poisoning, the rapes, the economic exploitation, and other terrible behaviour wasn't known to me until I read about the country's history.

Of course, we colonial subjects had also been inadequately educated. We had not been taught the geography or history of our homeland birthplaces. Or, of the dark side of European expansion into the lands of the coloured peoples.

Many of the questions we faced in the early years of our arrival in Australia were ignorantly sincere, but others spoke in a manner which suggested an attempted put down by an arrogantly stupid fellow. How pompously patronising did these fellows sound! Often it was the product of the so-called good schools who were so supercilious. One of these, a Kennedy (I have good reason to remember him) had acquired the plum-in-mouth, catarrh-infused accent then available from some of the Protestant schools. He was my first overt racist. At the same table in the students' dining room was a student who had been educated in England. What a contrast between two educated lads. The latter was the only Anglo-Celt student to invite me to his home for dinner with his family.

The difficulty we Asians had with uncouth people was that we had been brought up not to be rude, even in retaliation. So, what was one to do? Tell the questioner that Aussie food is tasteless? That boiled vegetables with the water thrown out, and overcooked casseroles, represented a primitive way of cooking? That any additional flavour required should be cooked into the food, not just added on top? In this context, I remember a young school teacher and lay minister of his church telling me that, if God had wanted us to eat spicy foods, he would have built that taste into the food. How does one respond to that, since he was clearly serious?

Could one also say that Christ was just another great teacher, but no different from the others, whom we also revered? Should we have said that the complexity and the mysticism of Hinduism and the other major faiths had been time-tested? I remember another young man saying that his church opposed meditation as practiced by Hindus. One's soul could vacate the body and an evil spirit or two might move in, he said. Should we have also pointed out that our ancestors had ruled themselves and founded trading empires long before Europe had managed to develop itself by using the silver and gold looted from central and south America? That we bathe twice a day, unlike the weekly baths I knew some Australians took, and the talcum powder applications preferred by some young women in lieu of a daily shower? I believe that we initial arrivals in White Australia lived by the adage "It is a wise falcon that hides it claws."

We put up with the gruff manner of those who tried not to be rude to us whilst they clearly did not want us on their land. Others were, on the other hand, ever helpful, especially on the streets, trams, and shops. They guided us to correct pronunciation (steak was not like teak) and with their colloquialisms. And we also learnt that the more accepting Aussie had a great sense of humour, dry but clever. Australian humour, on stage, radio and (later) on TV was, however, crude or slapstick, eg pie in face! The subtlety of their British forebears was rarely evident. Thus, there were lots of warming rays of sunshine breaking up the cool clouds of suspicion and negativity overhanging us in some places in those early days.

This, and my family's experience in multicultural Malaya, confirmed my belief that eventually humanity will win out, mainly through habituation. We, the coloured people, will also need to accept that the Devil is not as white as he was presented to us.

The common question by strangers in pubs (for that is where casual socialisation takes place) – what were we doing here – did not make sense until we realised that Aborigines were not then allowed in bars. However, were they as well dressed as we were? And did they speak as well as we did? Did that question to us not indicate prejudice? Then, the Aborigines were not even counted in the national population census; not until the late 1960s, because they were expected to be bred out. I suspect that the policy wallahs thought that this would be brought about by opportunistic white men.

Unlike the concept of integration, which applies to immigrant communities interlocking with the prevailing culture of the host people, assimilation was expected of the Australian indigene. If he wasn't dead, he was expected to lose his Aboriginality; that is, his divergent culture. The instrument of implementation was to be by implantation by white men. Such missionary zeal was propagated, not by wise men, but insensitively ignorant men. Does the sincerity of a venomous snake warrant the acceptance, or even the tolerance, of its right to strike?

The indigenes are, in the first decade of the new millennium, still not respected as a people. There are many in the urban areas I have lived in during the last twenty years. I doubt if full equal opportunity applies to them, except on policy papers. My concern here is that many of the immigrants from the Indian sub-continent are not readily distinguishable from Aborigines with a predominant Caucasian white-Aussie genetic component. Most Indians are Caucasians too.

The terrible rudeness of "Why don't you go back home, you black bastard?" was inexplicable. Who were these crude people, living in a land their predecessors had stolen, and in such a brutal fashion? This was the first overt attack on me, and in a public place. It was a fashionable arcade on a busy Saturday morning. I was well dressed, and minding my own business. Did my Harris Tweed jacket, Fletcher Jones slacks, polished brogues, and the rest, upset these yobbos? I suspect so. And it was not the last time I was so addressed. Some of such invitations were, however, couched with more subtlety. Not having been exposed to the Australian sun, I was then very lightly coloured too. So, in Australia, I had suddenly become a blackfellow, and a bastard to boot. My elders would have killed anyone who called them bastards. I was more tolerant, satisfied that he who respects not will not be respected by the Cosmos.

In Australia, public rudeness was no big thing. Why? Did the uncouth behaviour of those who were once described as the lower orders set the standards for acceptable speech and manners in early Australia, in the same way that American English reflects the sounds of ill-educated immigrants from Europe? The speech and manners of the educated British people, and the high standard of conduct in the British parliament, did suggest to me that Australia needed a few more centuries of social maturity before appearing cultured, if not civilised. Could it be accepted as fully civilised, given the on-going plight of the Aborigines? How many centuries do nations founded by immigrants driving out or killing the indigenous people need for social maturation?

Encouragingly, in the new millennium, the deficit in community conscience in relation to equal opportunity for the indigene is limited to a minority of the white populace and the politicians. As I suspected in those days more than half a century ago, Australian politicians are more backward than the people they govern. They rarely lead; they follow.

As for uncouth speech, I do know that when I decided, some years after my arrival, to adapt to Australian modes of speech, my Anglo-Aussie wife did say that I had become crude and common. This was a phrase she had learnt from her Italian mother, who had a modicum of Danish royalty in her genes. But I may have had a layer of 'common' well covered by my public persona.

The woman who exercised what she obviously thought was her right to be rude to me in public was a large middle-aged woman wearing the traditional gabardine coat and carrying that string bag. What was she doing? Protecting white space, obviously. That it had been white space for only one hundred and fifty years, and that it had been stolen from its black inhabitants after at least forty thousand years of successful management of the land may not have penetrated her self-contained mind. But, who gave her the right to fire a verbal barrage at an innocent young Asian? I admit to being mystified by that woman's behaviour. I just walked away.

Comparable behaviour has been displayed by third-generation descendants of Asian peasants who had migrated into Malaya, my country of birth. A classic case was a report in the Straits Times of Singapore of a wealthy Chinese couple who would not allow their bare-foot Indonesian maid to tread on their expensive carpet. There are of course many reports of such high-and-mighty attitudes by some of the newly rich of all ethnic origins. That is, their ancestral core of common-ness had not yet been dissipated. That can take a few generations.

In contrast, in Australia, it was the commoners who thought fit to behave in a comparably high and mighty manner. Had the era of the common man arrived? In Australia, it had; and with a vengeance! There were no porters at the docks, airports, or railway stations. Taxi drivers would not help with heavy luggage. Job demarcation, a trade union influence, enabled workers to make life difficult for employers, who surely were not all exploitative and rich. Labour costs were high, through decisions by arbitral authorities. The racial pride and prejudice of the common people was reflected in part in statements which described a friend as 'a truly white man', even when talking to an Asian. That said it all. It was this arrogance which was the mother of the abuse directed at us.

The Australian commoners, may have, of course, learnt their hoity-toity ways from their squattocracy. Morally questionable the acquisition of their lands might have been, the squattocracy nevertheless sought the establishment of the equivalent of the British House of Lords in the Australian parliament! They also sought indefatigably the entry of cheap coolie labour from India, China and even Japan! Interestingly, modern Australia may have achieved this goal recently, but perhaps only for the benefit of those ethnic employers exploiting their imported fellow-ethnic workers. Such intransigent intra-ethnic exploitation, enabled by ineffectively administered official policies, has been alleged to suit the ambition of the former conservative national government to reduce wage levels and also to destroy the power of the trade unions.

Historically, it was the arbitral authorities who had raised the self-image and confidence of the working class through their wage policies. This had also enabled a high level of home ownership. There was pride in one's surroundings, both within and outside the home. I was impressed with the fact that the Australian people had generally achieved a level of social intercourse where no one was more equal than the others. Clearly, there were no caste distinctions or class barriers preventing economic mobility, in spite of some Roman Catholic Irish-Australians claiming, under priestly tutelage, that they had been kept down. In truth, both sides are known to have practiced discrimination, particularly in employment. Overall, equal opportunity in acquiring requisite skills, and in economic and social class mobility, did prevail. So I observed, having lived, in a highly interactive and contributive way in the country for almost sixty years, and as an adult.

In terms of the personal dignity of human beings, I thought Australia's egalitarianism to be a fantastic achievement, and worthy of emulation by developing societies everywhere. Whether a controlling clergy in cahoots with exploitative entrepreneurs (as in south and central America) or the current forces of globalisation being spread universally by the raptorial controllers of industry and commerce from the leading nation of the Ultra-West will permit this is highly questionable. Efficiency in the utilisation of economic resources (including human workers), that underpinning of globalisation, devalues the integrity of human beings. The exploitation of workers, the hallmark of under-developed nations, is seeping into the fabric of developed economies. This can be achieved through the guise of seeking international competitiveness, aided by the importation of cheap labour.

But what personal disdain and prejudice then existed between Roman Catholics of mainly Irish descent and the Protestants in Anglo-Celt Australia; and how badly the Catholic clergy behaved. The latter statement reflects what I had been told by Irish Catholic friends. Being a Hindu, I could cross religious boundaries. Having grown up in a multi-ethnic, multicultural developing nation, where the practice of religion was a private matter, and people prayed as they wished, without casting either a superior or an evil eye on other religious beliefs and practices, the prejudice I found in Australia was quite shocking. Of course, the outsider can see most of the game better than the players on the field. I do know from my experience, even in the 1960s and 1970s, about prejudice propagated by some pious Pope-fearing men. They had clearly forgotten the teachings of their Savior, that we humans are all God's creatures and equal in His/Her eyes. Join my church or you will be doomed. For the salvation of your soul, join us. Presentations such as these buffeted us God-loving Asians.

However, the invitation "Only through me shall ye know God," said to have been spoken by Christ, has been contrasted by some with the advice "Whatever God to whom you pray, it is I who answer." Krishna, one of the manifestations of God, is said to have uttered the latter words.

In that ridiculous period of pride and prejudice, there were a couple of young priests who, I felt, should have been hung from the nearest lamp post for keeping their flocks away from the rest of us. Such prejudice! I thought they were un-Australian. For example, in the early 1960s, my family moved into a newly-developed suburb. My wife invited half a dozen young mothers around us for morning coffee the next day. We had all moved in at about the same time. All agreed. In the afternoon, a young priest in a VW visited all six homes. After he had gone, each mother said to my wife that they were not free to join her for coffee as planned. There was no suggestion of another day!

I was told later that the public service in the national capital was predominantly Irish-Australian. Their priesthood had encouraged the young men produced in large families to join the public services. The Roman Catholics were required (so I was told) to produce at least four children per family. Employment in the public services offered job security. The spin-off benefit to the church was that ultimately the public services would become dominated by its flock. Since the large money-dealing departments would grow fastest, in time, the Departments of Taxation, and Customs & Excise became the bailiwick of the Roman faithful. For another reason, Immigration became part of this bailiwick.

But Irish Catholics continued to complain about being kept down. A young lass in my team in the mid-1980s told me that her father (of my vintage) had warned her to watch out for the Prods and the Masons in the Department of Immigration (of all places). I wonder how her dad reacted when she told him how a Hindu/Anglican Mason had helped her considerably in settling into her job. My friends in these large departments (including three O'Briens) were, in my experience, good guys. We used to have a drink together from time to time.

Ironically, in the late 1980s, at least eight European Catholic Aussies complained about discrimination by senior staff in the Department of Immigration. I refused to join them, explaining that I am a loner. However, I tried to help them by speaking to the Head of the Department. I had known him since he was 26 years old, when both of us worked for ACOA, the public service union. He was a converted Catholic, son of a prominent Mason. He refused to intervene.

The influence of tribalism can be demonstrated by the following narrative. One of my fellow students told me how, when his father had been promoted in the early 1950s to head of Customs in a state capital, their priest had visited him at home. The priest told the new chief "Now you can look after our boys." I remember that well, because this is also an Asian expectation. Tribal preference practices are universal. The chief had responded by saying that, as merit had been the basis of his rise, merit would continue to apply.

Offsetting these one-eyed priests, whose primary allegiance was to a foreign potentate, there were a few decent priests, who were also ecumenical in their approach to that great mystery, the Creator of the Universe. I remember one in particular because he was a delightful man, but a mean tennis player. At the net, he showed no mercy towards the opposition.

To this day, I keep pointing out to the pious prejudiced that entry to the Heavenly Abode of the Celestial Father is not determined according to the clergy that one is attached to. And that we should expect, come that day, to shake hands with Caluthumpians, heathens, Muslims, Hindus, Baha'is, Confucionists, Buddhists, atheists and others at the door of that abode. This might explain why so many of the elderly around me seem afraid to die. And that is the problem with asserted superiority. Fall off your self-selected pedestal, and equality threatens you, with its maws churning in anticipation; especially in heaven.

To this day, there are well-meaning sincere Australians rather simple-mindedly attempting to have God-fearing and God-loving people in Asia join their Christian sect. Do these people expect gold stars to be stamped by God on the foreheads of their ethereal bodies when they reach Him/Her? Do these wannabe saviors of heathen souls ever stop to consider the damage they might be causing? A few years ago, at an ecumenical Christian men's breakfast, a returnee Protestant saviour told the large group present how a young man in north-east India had been converted to Christianity. This new Christian had then begun to describe his own family as pagans. At a similar gathering a few years later, a team returning to south east Asia to continue their attempts to save a few more souls to Christ agreed that they should not split families any more. Thank God, I thought, for such newly-found sensitivity. However, I have heard nothing about any improvement in the economic wellbeing of the converted.

It has to be recognised that over the centuries of European colonialism, the various priesthoods of Christianity were no more than the haughty handmaidens of rapacious traders and brutal militarists. How many societies, how many peoples, how may economies were destroyed or damaged by this rampaging trio throughout the world. Pizarro's priest comes readily to mind. And what does one think of this fellow, the Papal Legate at the siege of Beziers: "Kill them all, God will know his own"?

A sad commentary about a Church of England priest in prewar Malaya is that he gave the surname Possible to a convert. How smugly satisfied must he have been when he reported to his God at his death about all the ' possibles' he had collected.

Cosmic justice may result in such priests being reincarnated into animist or Shintoist families, awaiting conversion to Islam. In this context, I am pleased to say that I feel that I have, in my past lives, been a Jew, a Christian, and (possibly) a Confucianist. This is probably why it does not matter to me what faith a person professes, and how empowered a particular priesthood might feel by the conversion of heathen souls. In the long, long run, perhaps measured in aeons as the Buddhist priesthood likes to do, will we all not ultimately return to that Ocean of Consciousness from which we are said to have arisen?

Returning to the strange or rude behaviour by some Australians arising from the influx of students from those Asian communities previously disparaged, there was a minor problem of an appropriate label for us. "Mummy, there's a blackfellow" said a young child sighting me in my tram conductor's uniform. I understood. There was no other term for us brown people until much later, when we all became Indians. When I retort occasionally that I am not Indian, and go on to say (with my tongue in both cheeks) that I do not like Indians very much anyway, there is confusion in the eyes of those who hear that.

The East Asians were, of course, all chinks or chows. In the late 1990s an elderly neighbour of mine referred to the chows taking over a local supermarket when the young Indonesian wife of one of the Anglo owners was sighted by him. Politically, we just know that the Indonesian will one day over-run Australia, as soon as the Australian navy gives them its cast-off landing vessels. Those sections of the Australian media besotted by their allegiance to Rome, and thereby to East Timor, continue to disparage Indonesians, and Muslims in general, at every opportunity. Now that the sectarian divide, and occasional war, in Australia's Christian fellowship has been papered over, is it not time to accept that all the major religions are equal in their potential, and that Christians have historically been agents or instruments of terror in many parts of the world?

In terms of unacceptable conduct, a disgusting experience I was exposed to in my first year in Australia went thus. A friendly matronly woman, with a son at university, had invited to supper a young Ceylonese Malayan she had met at the local suburban railway station. He was invited to visit with any friends he chose to bring. His brother and I accompanied him to a very attractive home after our evening meal. Before supper, our hostess had her new Asian friend on show. Peeling back his lips, she exclaimed, "Look Gladys, see how pink they are!" Then his palms and tongue were inspected. Before she could go any further, his brother and I suddenly remembered an appointment we had overlooked, and left. I did wonder whether she would have him remove his 'daks'; that is, his slacks. Middle class wealth could not camouflage a peasant mind with no manners. For Asians, who are careful to respect the bodies of others, and are mindful of that interpersonal space socially, this kind of behaviour is totally unacceptable.

In the display of racist, ethnic, or simply cultural prejudice against us, there were, in my observation, significant class differences. Whilst the yobbo or the simply ignorant might choose to cut us, using his tongue as a metaphorical bayonet displaying frontally his dislike of us, the middle-class racist was more likely to use a verbal sabre as he rode past anyone he considered inferior. The socially superior upper-class fellow might, however, prefer to use mustard gas in the form of an appropriate euphemism. That is, the camouflage was greater the higher the social class. Reports of such bad behaviour seemed to me to reflect a moral malaise. This will, of course, abate over time, when successive generations learn to live together.

Yet, near the end of the first decade of the 2000s, a good friend (a man of my vintage) said that he did not want his country to change. He was referring to the previous prime minister losing his seat through the influence of about 30% of his electorate now being East Asian. As my father used to say, the dogs may bark, but the caravan will move on! We seek immigrants to keep the economy growing, and they, in all their cultural variety, will shape the nation of the future. They might not support, as their national icons, a highway man, a cross-dressing entertainer, or sundry sportsmen of yore. Surely, new citizens have a right to join their predecessors in citizenship in selecting the nation's icons. Do they not contribute to the evolving national identity?

However, would the Australian indigene be allowed to contribute to an evolving national identity? Would he be permitted to help identify the nation's icons? There would need to be a seismic shift in social acceptance and political commitment for that to happen. Yet, there have been discernable improvements in the treatment of the indigene. For example, the first Aborigine I saw was a drunk. He was hit on the head with a truncheon by a policeman, and thrown (yes, thrown) into the police wagon. That was in 1949. The only other Aborigines I saw in that early period were a relaxed prostitute at the harbour-front in Broome, and a dignified cattleman, appropriately garbed in boots and hat, walking in the distance in Derby in north-west Australia.

By the mid-1960s, middle-class, well-dressed Aborigines were working for the government in Canberra. Self determination on tribal land was introduced as policy, possibly with disastrous consequences. Whilst State governments became accused of not spending money due to Aboriginal betterment, Aboriginal organisations proliferated. An Aboriginal middle class was quietly developing, with professional people and academics increasing in number. A highly literate political class is both visible and audible. But, does the private sector employ Aboriginals in other than menial positions? Is the employment by the three levels of government better than tokenistic? At a personal level, I wonder if native Australians are not keeping themselves separate from the rest of us.

My more extensive exposure to the white natives of Australia included working in an ice cream factory for three months. The early morning start required me to leave my guest house before the official breakfast time, catch a train for a long journey into the city, then walk across the long bridge over the city's turgid and murky river, and then down a street to the waterside industrial area. I was fortunate in that location. The previous week I had my first job. It was in a sulphur factory. When I got to Flinders Street station, I was guided to the correct platform by a grumpy ticket seller. Perhaps he was an 'owl' like me, the owl being able to stay awake until very late in the night but not too alert or sociable at the crack of dawn. I then had to read a very confusing overhead signboard on the platform. When the train arrived, I jumped in, although I had not understood the announcement over the loudspeakers.

I am not sure why the railways had never trained their station attendants to speak clearly. At that time, it was the Aussie whose utterances might as well have been in Greek. Later, the Victorian railway station employees seemed to be Yugoslavs speaking in Romanian or Latvian – how would we know the difference? Most recently, in Sydney, the accent is clearly Indian but, at times, the language might be Swahili. I say this without intending any offence to my fellow imported blackfellows, for this is how I now describe myself.

But I refuse to accept that I am a black bastard. My antecedents have been traced back fourteen generations, through official records in a system established by Dutch colonials in Colombo. My blood-line is totally unadulterated but, as a consequence, somewhat inbred genetically. How so? Because our levels of intelligence have been rising whilst our physical build is diminishing. And that might be because marriage was, by and large, with distant relatives; that is, within the tribe. By now, almost all of the Ceylon Tamils from Jaffna may be linked by blood, irrespective of where we are in our diaspora.

New blood lines, if not excessively random, and with adequate regard to adverse inheritance patterns relating to mental health, physical deformity, and criminality, should be beneficial. Traditionally, these adverse inheritance patterns are sought to be avoided by the Ceylon Tamils through arranged marriages. These are strangely successful. Perhaps, the regard given to planetary influences likely to impact upon the personalities involved, as defined by horoscopes, are effective. Cultural commitment to the intended spouse, and to the expected children would, of course, be essential. However, the impact of Bollywood (Indian) films, and modernisation influences seeping through from the Western world through overseas education and some American TV, are introducing love (however defined or felt) as the attractor and subsequent bond between the genders at the cusp of their libidinal trajectories.

In my extended family, I was not the first to marry across ethnic boundaries. Prewar, an uncle married a Chinese lady. Another uncle married a Malay lady soon after the end of the war. Now, we have Burmese, Chinese, Indian, English and a smattering of other ethnicities in our gene line.

However, it takes two to make a success of marriage, but only one to wreck it. I was to be a pioneer in this regard. Cultural imperatives were, of course, involved. Statistically, up to about 30% or more of marriages in Australia at the end of the twentieth century demonstrated the truth of this statement. The consequences for the children caught between conflicting adult wants could fairly be said to be disastrous.

Returning to that train journey in my first job, I must have fallen asleep. Much later, I was woken up by a kindly railway employee at the end of that train line. The train had been stationary for some time, and was about to be re-directed for cleaning. I eventually got back to my guest house. The next day, I took the correct train, and was given the task of shaking out empty hessian sacks coated inside with what smelt like sulphur powder, folding them, and placing them neatly in a pile. Before I could do that, I had to join the union. I had never heard of a union. And I was not to know that one day I would be the recipient of a meritorious service award by a union. I was covered in dust and stank, but no one on the trains said anything on my way home. As I did not report for work the next day, there went my union dues and a day's wages. In each subsequent job, I was required to join a union.

At the ice cream factory, I filled large canisters from a tube through which the ice cream mixture flowed, which I could not switch off. As each canister was filled, I would move it aside with a foot, pulling an empty canister in place without any spills. The full canister had to be lifted up onto the platform edge of the chill room, where someone inside would move it. Empty canisters would come my way as required. There was no time available to relax or to chat. I do not recall any pit-stops. One day, one of the men working in the way I was, called out across the floor "Hey, Rastus." I did not find it funny, and was pleased when no one laughed when he called out. I ignored him, whilst being observed closely by our workmates. During the lunch break, he tried again, from a distance. I ignored him again. As we had been taught, the uncouth are to be ignored. The other workers, all white of course, were quite relaxed with me.

However, as I discovered again and again, there would always be an intangible gulf between an university student and a fellow worker not seeking to better himself or, in a bureaucracy, between a worker on his way to management positions and the others who would remain on the treadmill, often quite placidly, even by choice.

One day, I was knocked down by an awful smack on the centre of my forehead. It was not one of those third-eye awakenings. A connection on an overhead pipe had given way and a stream of chocolate ice cream had hit me with surprising accuracy. Two machines were turned off with alacrity. I washed the mix off my scalp and face, and returned to keeping children happy. No surprisingly, I could not stand the aroma of ice cream for about a year after that. This was a great pity, as I found Australia's ice cream and chocolates very tasty indeed. However, I do have to admit that, after a visit to a chocolate factory in Hobart during an inter-varsity hockey carnival, I could not bear the aroma of chocolates for a very long time either. But that was because the women putting little twirls on individual pieces of chocolate passed over quite a few to us when their boss was not looking. It must have been their motherly instinct at work, for which we, who were young enough to appreciate it, were truly grateful.

As I write this, I am reminded of a converse situation. A mature Aussie woman, skilled in craftsmanship with textiles, was peering over the shoulder of a young woman working her sewing machine in a batik factory in Jogjakarta in Indonesia. Without turning her head, the machinist hissed, most clearly, "Piss off!" Talk about a culture shock. And what lovely cross-cultural learning.

The culture shock caused to the host people by the presence of well-dressed young coloured people in white British Australia was reflected in some strange ways. On trams, the seat next to me could remain empty whilst passengers were strap-hanging. Only the inebriated or drunks would normally sit with me, often to ask for money. Yet, during my stint as a tram conductor, no one was in any way rude to me. When the tram was jam-packed, I placed my hands behind my bag of tickets and cash and pushed against the bottoms of those I sought to breathe in a little more, or shuffle in a bit more. Challenged one day with the words "You can't fit in any more," I replied "I can only try." That brought a laugh, and an effort to accommodate those who would have been left.

On another occasion, late one evening, it was clear that we did not have the room to take all those who tried to board. Yet, I said "This is the last tram. We can't leave them there, can we?" Well, after a few good natured laughs, we did fit in all those who would have been stranded, even if some had to ride on the footboard for short distances. My driver was co-operative in this illegal procedure. Fortunately, near midnight, one could count on the absence of the police and the tramway inspectors..

The drunks would always pick on us Asians outside the pubs or at the city's street corners as we walked past. We would be asked for sixpence for coffee. We were addressed as Jacko by these, presumably the only appellation that came into their minds. My impression was that it was a term normally used by whites addressing the indigenes. It was certainly nicer than Rastus. Interestingly, even in the 1990s, whilst I was in the middle of a group of three women and one man, all white and very close friends, I was targeted by a slightly inebriated Anglo-Aussie who called out in our direction "Hey, Jacko!" He followed us for a short distance, repeating his call, until my friend threatened to deck him.

There were other interesting experiences. A room advertised as available for letting in the late 1940s and early 1950s would suddenly be not available. A typical example: Over the phone I was told that the room advertised was still available. In less than 10 minutes I arrived at the door. A woman answered the door, looked at me with surprise, seemed a little unsettled, and said that her sister had let the room without telling her. Far too many of us had similar experiences.

Initially, guest houses were the places to stay. But, the food......! Renting a room with cooking facilities was therefore the way to go, even if it meant leaning to cook. For, no Asian I knew had ever been allowed into their family kitchens. Inevitably, our landlord was a prewar European immigrant, who was also comfortable with the aroma of our spices. We often exchanged recipes with the few Europeans around. Our arrival coincided with that great influx of war-displaced persons, so many of whom were middle class and educated, with skills to be wasted in Australia.

These early 'reffos' were not welcome either. Were they to be heard on street corners or public transport trying to find a common language or to juggle words from a variety of languages in order to talk to one another, almost inevitably there would be some Anglo-yobbo snarling at them saying "Why don't you speak English you......"? The sheer arrogance of the yobbos was impressive. This was in spite of the authorities seeking to soften the populace by describing the initial arrivals of displaced persons as 'beautiful Balts' (why Balts?), and publicising that intake as a humanitarian gesture (which it was). These arrivals were indeed blonde with blue eyes, but many came from a number of countries nowhere near the Baltic Sea. I have to say that some of the women who arrived were most attractive, projecting a very feminine persona, somewhat comparable to that of the Asian women.

Our social life was constrained by the simple fact that, even after a couple of years, girls were not prepared to be seen in public with us. We understood. Our parents would not allow their daughters to go out with men of other ethnicities; certainly not with white men. This reluctance also applied to a Jewish lass with a number on her forearm, a reminder of life under the Nazis. Her community would not like it, I was told apologetically, if we were seen at a public concert in mid-afternoon at the weekend. Yet, Jewish Australian lads had been the most friendly people we had dealt with on arrival. Then, on a tram, two girls standing behind me and my wife-to-be were heard to say "Couldn't she get one of our boys?" All this was no doubt very normal in cross-ethnic terms, especially in those days, but not pleasant to experience.

Yet, behind closed doors, there was some very intimate contact between some landladies and their brown Asian lodgers. Young men are always prone to crow about any uplifting experiences of the bedding kind. Knowing that an ounce of discretion is better than a pound of learning, as said by that ubiquitous Anon, to protect the reputation of the girls who were happy to go out with us, we would meet them at the cinema, theatre or coffee house, parting when we though wise. The odd doorway did offer some contact.

However, no matter how well we behaved, that is, in the manner taught to us by middle-class parents, we could be ridiculed. In cold Melbourne, when we knotted a woollen scarf around our necks, some fellow university students would sneer at us audibly. Their crude language and rough accents indicated the social class they hoped to leave. A Students' Representative Council survey about the initial Asian influx had a touching question: Would the respondent agree to his sister marrying an Asian? Really! We, on the contrary, had also been warned not to get too close to Australian women, for fear of entrapment into marriage.

A strange statement of rejection occurred when a friendly fellow student said to me "You are OK. But I would not want many more like you in my country." That was honest. I pointed out in response, that I drank beer, burped, farted and swore (when acceptable) exactly as he did. It did not cut any ice with him. This argument was as equally ineffective in the late 1980s with my racist boss when he sought to justify his treatment of me. It was my "cultural background" he said that would prevent me from being promoted to what I considered to be the level of my competence. What aspect of that heritage was he referring to? He would not say. The tongue of prejudice slashed the aspiration of an innocent very effectively.

In the mid-1980s, when three of us middle managers were having a drink at the end of the working week, one said to the other "There are too many black people coming into the country." Suddenly becoming aware of me, he said to me "No, not like you." I liked that. It was also possible that he had not been seeing me as a black man until then. Indeed, I have often to be reminded that I am coloured. For, in the world which produced me, skin colour was not worthy of comment. Were we not all coloured?

The notable exception is that Indian mother who looks for a 'fair' wife for her son when her own extended family, indeed her clan, and the people surrounding them display a wide range of shades of brown. Why does she hark back to the days when whitish Central Asians or light brown northern 'Indians' dominated parts of the land, mainly the north? The darker south Indian has the most perfect features of the sub-continent, if not the world. So many of the beautiful women of that region are near black. I do find this preference for fair girls quite weird. Naturally, those who say that fair is preferable do not present themselves as particularly intelligent. I remember being irritated, even as a young boy, when visiting women used to say to my mother "Pity it's the boy who is fair." This was said in front of my sisters as well!

I was also irritated at the behaviour of a not-so-friendly captain of my university hockey team. He would take my place whenever he played badly, dropping me to the lower team. Yet, our team mates said that I was the better player in my position. So I left that team. Why was it always me who was dropped? In another situation, a product of a private school, judging by his accent, made clear his feelings that I and my people were inferior. Indeed, "That nigger Gandhi" he said, "should be shot!" Whoa! A white Aussie lad with colonial instincts? There were all manner of insulting innuendos coming through from similar comments by others like him about our lives and history. What weirdos!

In my first two years, no Anglo-Australian invited me home; only Italian, Yugoslav or English-Aussies. When I sat in the music room of the university I was ignored. And, apart from that one young man, none of my Anglo-Aussie fellow students ever invited me for a drink or to their homes. My second hockey team, on the other hand, drank together after each exhausting match. We would sink ten small beers within fifty minutes, the first four not touching the sides of anything on their way to the gut; we were clearly dehydrated on arrival.

Another strange experience was that our accents were, forever and ever, the butt of attempted humour. Yet, did we point out that the Australians too had a range of accents, and that the working class accent was, to our ears, somewhat weird? Of course not! Why weird? Because these Australians mangled their vowels, and swallowed many a consonant. Strangely, rude references to the foreign accents of settled immigrants by common-garden Aussies is now on the increase. The accents of these Aussies are, however, beginning to sound Jewish-American, thanks to the TV. Some Aussies tried to make fun of our English, but that was a mistake; for we were better educated, thanks to the British.

It was in the shops that the most demeaning experiences occurred. Often, very often, I was the last to be served, unless another customer pointed out that I was next. There were many such fair persons about. This practice lasted for years. In the late 1960s I watched my little son standing at the counter being ignored by a young shop assistant in a major department store. She preferred to serve her own people standing behind him until I intervened. In the mid-1990s, a young Aborigine boy to whom I had given a lift told me quietly that he was still the last one to be served in the shops. I guess that the ignorant will die ignorant, as I have observed in a coastal sea-change area with 30% of the population being senior citizens. Any theft, any misdemeanor is automatically attributed by many senior citizens to "the blacks." How smugly ridiculous these people sound.

As for casual work, there was no problem. At the end of World War Two, Australia had a shortage of able-bodied men. Immigration from Europe was intended to overcome this shortage. Fare-assisted arrivals had to work with their hands and bodies for two years at jobs in locations to which they were directed. The Anglo-Aussie became so used to avoiding what he called shit-work that today unskilled Asian labour is sought for these jobs. I had no trouble in finding causal work, as needed, including as mail sorter, assembler of tricycles, tram conductor, etc. Fellow workers accepted me comfortably. It was only on my return, when I sought executive or managerial positions, that the situation changed.

In relation to jibes intending to denigrate, I was quite proud of my impromptu response on one occasion to a couple of yobbos in a pub. I hasten to point out that we did not spend all of our spare time in pubs. But that is where prejudice was openly displayed. As my friend and I walked out the door with as much dignity as we could muster after some rude remarks had been directed at us, I asked "Haven't you got a mother either?" By the time the yobbo could have worked out what I meant, we were safely away.

In a pub in country Victoria, a very large guy walked up to the three of us having a quiet drink, and said, "Where are you boys from?" Since it was none of his business, I said "What's it to you, mate?" in what apparently was a somewhat clipped British accent. That stopped him. We got on well after that. I suspect that he was the local sergeant of police in a township where many Aborigines lived.

Purely as an aside, I recall that when President Sukarno of Indonesia was popularly described by his people as Bung Karno, our media fellows had a great time referring to him as Boong Karno, boong being a pejorative term for the Australia indigene. Such was the level of Aussie racism and quality of media humour. I was reminded of an Asian adage: The pebble in the creek secretly thinks itself to be a precious stone.

An interesting feature of the common Aussie pebble then was a seemingly urgent need to give Aussie names to us unsuspecting Asian youths. Charlie was foisted on a few Chinese lads; it wasn't difficult to understand the mentality of those guilty of this practice. Krishna became Chris, Raja became Roger, and so on. Finally, I decide to put a stop to this practice. After agreeing to Roger, because the fellow said that Raja was too difficult for him to say, I said that I wanted to address him as Chin (at other times it was Shiva, Ali, etc). I explained that I too had difficulty with foreign names. Strangely, no one had any difficulty with my name after that!

Making fun of others can be bilateral. For instance, outside Melbourne's town hall on a busy Saturday morning, three of us brown fellows, seeing three of our compatriots across the very wide road, shouted to the passers-by "Look! Look! Blackfellows!" Most of the public displayed a stiff upper lip, but a couple of mature men smiled at us. They understood. On another Saturday morning, a couple of us had a street full of people apparently believing that the T&G building in mid-town was on fire. There seemed to be white smoke coming out of the top floor. But, it was only the white cloud behind the building. Whilst everyone's neck was pointed in the right direction in agreement that it was probably on fire, we quietly moved on. We hoped that no one had rung the fire brigade.

On my way home after my disastrous experience at university, I managed to persuade all the people on deck on my little ship that there was a girl standing next to a hut on the island of Bali as we sailed past it. There really was no one there. Well, what's the good of being young, if you can't have a little fun, especially at the expense of those who have tickets on themselves? On another occasion, we tried offering a little spiritual education. At a railway station in South Australia, on the platform was a timber crate. It had the name of the town of Whyalla in large capitals on one side. Seeing that an upright on the crate had split the name thus – WHY ALLA – we somehow found a piece of chalk, and wrote below the words the following – TRY BUDDHA. We liked to think that someone might have become enlightened that day through our guidance.

After my initial experiences with racist Australians I knew that the oldest generation had to die before the foreigners, that is the wogs from Europe and the Asians, could expect less irritating to insulting behaviour by Anglo-Australians. That did happen. I am now convinced that my generation too has to pass over before equal opportunity for coloured Australians, including those born in this country, improves. And I do wonder whether racism might be insidious. It may be genetically triggered, whilst tribal preference is clearly culturally conditioned.

The term race is a misnomer. It is difficult to define operationally; that is, in a practical way. This was demonstrated near the end of the 2000s when an Indian bowler was accused of making a racist remark. He was alleged to have called a coloured Australian batsman a monkey. I found the episode hilarious. When a white man calls another white man a c—t, a bastard, a f—-wit, he is clearly trying to insult the other. Would anyone claim that such name calling in that situation is racist? When a coloured man calls another coloured man a sloth, elephant or monkey, or makes an insulting remark about the other's mother or sister (as traditionally happens), how does that become racist?

Do cultural sensitivities make an intended insult a racist remark? The word bastard is offensive to Asians and to non-British Europeans. Would an Anglo-Aussie abusing a Jewish Hungarian immigrant as a bastard be found to be racist? How about British political leaders referring to Indians seeking freedom from rule by the British Kaiser of India as niggers? Or that student colleague of mine who referred to that nigger Gandhi? It should be obvious which of these insults can correctly be described as racist.

At its core, racism reflects a them-vs-us perspective. It includes a penumbra, from penetrably soft to impenetrably hard encompassing those features of the other (the 'them') which are considered inferior. These features of the inferior other could be skin colour, religion, behaviour, and other expressions of divergent customary traditions. These are the standards introduced by European colonisers. Of these, it is skin colour that is the primary identifier of the inferior other. To the coloniser, the skin colour of the inferior other has associated but subsidiary components of inferiority, viz. religion, cultural values and practices, clothing styles, and so on.

It is interesting to note that the American senator Obama is described by the media as a black, when he is only 50% black African; the other 50% is white. So, it is skin colour which defines a fellow human being, and thereby leads to pejorative statements. So, when a coloured fellow insults another coloured fellow, how can that be racist?

Then, that instinct which leads male lions to kill the offspring sired in their mates by other males cuts in. It seeks to diminish or destroy that unwanted, unrespected 'other.' Whilst culturally conditioned prejudice may be overcome by education, allied to habituation through living together amicably or tolerantly for a time, that genetic drive (if I am correct) is what keeps racism going. Will mankind ever evolve into a more humanistic being, overcoming gene-based instincts about not tolerating those not like us?

As for tribal preference in Australia, one has to wait for the clergy of the authoritarian or an isolating kind, and politicians with a focus on social policies affecting the nether lands of the female, to become more enlightened. Hopefully, the Cosmos will attend to this matter soon.

It is against this record of my early experiences and mutual culture shocks in Australia, updated within context with those developments which provide necessary depth, that I embark upon the story of my passage as a new settler. On this road, I have quite a few flat-tyre experiences. That is, they were not major disasters or (in my terminology) wheels-falling-off episodes, except for that final one. Some of these did find me falling into holes that were not there.

I thus demonstrate the impact of Destiny on human aspirations and folly, with institutional and cultural barriers running interference.

Did my birth in the Year of the Dragon signify what Destiny had laid out for me? As a famous astrologer has already pointed out, you are not _what_ you are because of _when_ you were born; you were born _when_ you were because of _what_ you are. Thus, as a Dragon, do I need to soar and to swoop in all directions almost simultaneously, just to be what I am?

There was, however, a valuable lesson to be learnt from being exposed to Australia's idiosyncracies. The early slights and insults, followed by the discriminatory practices intended to keep me down (and which were successful) taught me to control two instincts. First the tribal tendency. Peaceful as we are by our faith, when constrained seriously or attacked, we Ceylon Tamils tend to become tigers. We will fight. The Buddhist Singhalese, who were given control over Tamil territory by the British, now know all about this. This is little different from the plight of the Armenians, Kurds, Basques, Palestinians, and others who have been subsumed, indeed subjugated, in the name of nationhood. This is an aberration. The concept of nation originally represented the territory of a unified tribal people, sharing a faith, a language and cultural traditions.

The other instinct I controlled was my own temperament. As a hot-headed boy, I was forever cautioned by my mother to control my temper. In Australia, I was successful in not responding by instinct. I also kept my head down when discretion directed. I moved out of range when wisdom warranted it. I spoke out when challenge was called for. Best of all, I smothered my enemies with professional superiority, thus counter-balancing discrimination to a degree. Surviving with integrity intact, without fighting or losing my temper, and without becoming prejudiced, was surely a worthwhile lesson. It might be useful for my next life. Anyway, for this life, has it not been said that the result of tolerance is contentment?

Having said that, I must place on record my great respect for the Anglo-Aussie worker. This respect began in those bad early days. Perhaps it was because I worked in menial jobs without looking down on anyone. I treated each person as I found him. This led to reciprocity, an interesting phenomenon. The white worker knew that he was equal to any other white man, as a consequence of the White Australia policy and the arbitral system. Because of his reflected colonial heritage, he would feel superior to any coloured person. When a coloured person, obviously better educated then he, treats him as an equal, mutual respect can arise.

Once accepted, I have had awful tea (terribly weak, and drowned in milk) and lovely cakes in the kitchen of the homes of workers; participated in night-long piss-ups, the beer in nine gallon kegs being standard fare; and enjoyed the company of decent people. My experience may have been rare; I do not know. But, I benefited from that experience. In return, I have heard comments such as "For a black bastard, he is a good bloke". I accepted that, even as these people offered friendship, they could not offload their vocabulary.

Wherever in Australia I find myself, whenever I need help or practical advice, it is the worker who is inclined to assist. When my car broke down, the only ones who would stop to help were the rough-spoken fellows. They are still around. They remain the backbone and essence of this nation.

### Chapter 3

A FAILED TAKE-OFF

As a dog returneth to his vomit

So a fool returneth to his folly.

\- Proverbs, Old Testament, The Bible

With a tremendous optimism, but undermined slightly by an insidious sense of insecurity, I approached my launch pad. My wife and I were happily reconciled. We looked to the future with both hope and confidence. I got a job with the state public service as a fulltime casual. My work experience in my previous life in Australia stood me in good stead. An Indian student friend and I had been employed during one university vacation by the Department of Defence to process the payment of war gratuities.

He, I and an Austrian Aussie friend of his would get together for a few beers on the odd Friday afternoon. We used to drink in the public bar, which was cheaper. We liked mugs with handles, called pots, containing 10oz of beer, instead of the usual 7oz glasses. It was a pretension we enjoyed. Melbourne beer was, I believed, the best of the Australian beers. It was a judgement based on inter-varsity hockey travel, and journeys across Australia.

The compulsory 6 pm closing was no problem for us. We wanted to be home for dinner or to eat in the university cafeteria, where the food was quite acceptable in both variety and taste. Australia, in those days, was quite a primitive place. No alcohol could be bought or drunk at a bar on a Sunday. The only way to get a drink was to drive twenty miles into the country. This policy was not determined by the publicans in country towns, but by the churches. However, the clubs broke down that barrier soon by allowing liquor sales after the hours of church attendance. As for buying takeaway beer after hours, all that one had to do was to bang on the back door of any small suburban pub, and pay a fee (presumably for opening that door). The publicans were not greedy. A valuable lesson I learnt was to open a bottle of beer with a penny, for who would have thought of carrying a bottle opener in case one got thirsty late in the evening.

Our favourite pub was across the road from the university. When the factory workers arrived in their blue singlets, all the university students, many of whom claimed to be on the side of the workers (some defining themselves as socialists), would move to the lounge bar. There the beer cost a little more. It was not so noisy, and there were no smelly workers to interrupt any full-blown debate that might be generated. After all, some of us were either not in tune, by birth, with the working class, or preparing to leave it. The Asian students' families would have trudged out of the working class at least one to two generations earlier. Because I was ecumenical, by consorting with socialists one day, and with right wingers another day, I probably confused those who were then busily looking for reds under our beds.

In the Department of Defence, my Indian friend and I filled in authority-to-pay forms for a couple of weeks. These were checked by an auditor, and then sent off for payment. I knew that we were quite productive, and, more importantly, accurate; none of our forms were sent back to be corrected. A couple of weeks later, the office employed a few more students, all white. My friend and I checked their work. Before authorising payment, the auditor was known to sample-inspect our accuracy. Each day I processed up to 450 forms (a ridiculously large number), about 100 more than my good friend. That was because I was more bored than he. The job required no more than good eyesight. Initialling and stamping each form took no time. Whilst one's eyes and hands were busy, one's mind could travel anywhere. Of what use is a mind if it is not to scan the universe of existence?

Apart from the first week's incident, which upset the whole office of permanent public servants, we got along well with everyone. I suspected, however, that these public servants worked to a 'darg', a weekly quota. They moved in a controlled and relaxed manner. They read and wrote in a resoundingly stolid style. I was reminded of placid cattle chewing the cud calmly and with good effect. So, this was routine office work. I must avoid such work in my life, I decided. What an optimist!

What happened in that first week? It was Monday, the day before the Melbourne Cup, a horse race day of great sanctity. When invited to join the huge sweep being conducted in the office, we bought three tickets – one each for us, and a third for my friend's Anglo-Aussie wife. These turned out to be the three winning tickets. Were we popular! But, our colleagues soon forgave us.

We were supervised fairly casually by a nuggety tough guy. However, when I was late by 15 minutes after lunch one day because I had missed a train from the city, was I chastised. Had I been drinking? No, I said. You'll never be late again he warned me fiercely. My daily output did not obviously matter. However, at the end of our stint, we were farewelled most fondly. Some of our former colleagues kept track of my later career in the public service through the Commonwealth Gazette (which recorded promotions) and the so-called Stud Book (which identified all and sundry by status). The Gazette was read assiduously by one and all, identifying vacancies of interest, and those who filled them. The latter might offer scope for an appeal. I did not anticipate my involvement in such matters in the distant future.

Before working for Defence, I had also worked briefly for a furniture factory assembling tables. I had then stamped the underside of each table 'Made by European labour only', as directed by the foreman. What progress – from a blackfellow and black bastard to European labour!

It was when I was sorting mail in the head office of the Postal Department that I discovered some interesting things. At 3 pm, the men's room waste bin had Bex headache powder wrappers in goodly numbers. Some staff were caught in the toilet reading mail they had pocketed. Yet, above the sorters, there walked supervisors who could see though their floor what the workers were doing. A parcel sorter throwing parcels into the wrong bag could, however, say "Don't worry. It will come back."

Having such work experience helped me get a job in the Titles Office, a state department, almost immediately after my return. I entered details of transfers (sales) of real estate. My work was checked daily. Then the office employed more part-time students, all white, and I was made checker and team supervisor. No one seemed to mind. However, I did catch the head of office checking the accuracy of my work during some of my lunch breaks. He was of course entitled to do that. Like the Immigration chief I had dealt with in my previous life, my boss was a kind man, interested in both our studies and our welfare. It was a good office.

Early the next year, I commenced my university studies. After my earlier academic failure, I had tried to train as a pilot, being attracted by the travel and the money. As I had never seen an air hostess, they were not part of the attraction. A psychologist employment officer at a private airline told me bluntly that I would soon be bored with the job. How did he work that out in a half hour interview? Generously, he referred me to a government agency which put me through a series of intelligence and aptitude tests. The results showed, to my amazement, that I had verbal, mathematical, spatial and intellectual aptitudes.

That was a confidence booster. I really needed that. I had been living with a feeling of incompetence for years, having nightmares about failing exams. The aptitude tests now showed that I could do well in any course, from medicine to agronomy to zoology, were I interested in that course. So, it was lack of interest that was partially responsible for my academic failure. That was not really news, as I had not wanted to be a general practitioner dealing with the petty health symptoms of patients. I need an on-going intellectual challenge.

I then realised that what I really wanted to do was to study society. Indeed, I seemed to have been observing society most of my life. I was initially interested in the complex inter-relationship between the various communities in a developing multi-ethnic nation-in-the-making, through conversations I had listened to at home between my father and my uncles. I now realise that I had been born into an extended family of observant men. I was doubly fortunate in having a mother and an aunt who were well versed in our religion, and thereby able to offer wise advice. I remember one: Even monkeys fall from trees. Another was: You cannot pass a motion without passing water! Such practical advice is surely not to be sneezed at.

The single lesson that mattered most to me was that the universe is without beginning or end. This concept has continued to interest me throughout my life, because the universe could not have been created, could it? Was God's role restricted to creating sentient life forms?

As there was no course in sociology available at my university, I decided on psychology and economics. This was to be followed by (I hoped) a masters course in sociology at London University and a PhD in multicultural studies at the University of Hawaii. Nothing like stoking up ambition before even getting the kindling assembled! And I did not know that I would never achieve that great plan. Indeed, there was a great deal that I did not know then. Then the university struck. The heads of each arm of my planned studies said that I risked falling between two stools. I resisted. When I sought to enrol for a fulltime program but studying part-time, by attending after-work lectures and tutorials, I was denied. I had to study part-time, as I needed to work fulltime, I responded. When I then pointed out that my life in Melbourne might be truncated at any time, I was allowed to test my ability one year at a time. That was kind of them.

So far, so good. Whilst we could live on my wife's income, I was determined to be self-standing. In any event, we needed to save the deposit for a home. My conscience too needed a boost to offset that terrible feeling of failure, and my awareness of community disapprobation back home. I needed to try and redeem myself in their eyes, although my chances were very low. So events showed.

My daily program was thus. I had to wake up by 7:15am, leave the house by 7:45 am, run to the tram more than a quarter of a mile away, have a ride of about 45 minutes to the city, and walk a short distance to the office, to be there by 9am. I had to leave work a little before 5pm for a short tram ride to the university. I would reach home about 9pm, often a little wet in the winter. There was no risk walking along empty streets in those days. Indeed, I have taken short-cuts through public parks, passing others in a similar plight, without any stress of any sort. Such walks were necessitated when the trams had stopped running; that is, after midnight. However, when the yobbos were able to buy old cars cheaply, from about the 1960s, public parks and beaches became unsafe.

Breakfast was a glass of milk and two raw eggs in another glass, placed at the corner of the kitchen table by my kind mother-in-law, together with half a slice of toast and a substantial packed lunch. The eggs and milk took no time, with the toast being munched as I left hastily by the back gate. I would read a text on the tram, both ways. Morning tea was a hot drink with two slices of cake. Lunch was tea with three solid sandwiches plus fruit, followed by more study. Afternoon teas was two more slices of cake with tea. I did eat well during the day. I remain grateful to that caring lady.

The tea breaks (15mins for the whole office) involved some serious debate with part-time students. Our studies ranged from art, philosophy, medicine, archaeology and ancient history, law, psychology with economics, history and other arts degree subjects. The school teacher studying art would show us his expensive coffee-table books bought during the lunch hour. We were thus introduced to the great art of the world. We debated key issues in all the subjects being studied. For example, in history, did society and circumstances produce great men when needed or vice versa? With law, where lay the balance between individual rights and societal needs? Did this boundary vary with the nature of society? In philosophy, where did individual rights come from? In politics, were we truly democratic? For each position taken, where was the evidence? And so we debated for at least half an hour each day. We must all have been better educated as a consequence.

The boss allowed quiet talk between neighbouring workers, as long as output and accuracy were not affected. For a whole year, I dealt with questions on law. The effect was that, years later, I was assumed to have been trained in the law. In one office, working for the Foreign Investment Review Board, I dealt with legislation, in spite of there being two lawyers present. The only ones in the titles office who broke the rules about honest work were two young priests who had just left their seminary. I caught them reading on their first day with each book under a pile of title documents. So I asked them quietly how they expected to guide their future flocks to a moral life. The older one and I wrote to each other for about a year and a half whilst he was doing his second theological course at Manly. I had him explain the bases of his church's teachings.

When everyone had gone to bed, I began to study, until about 2 am or 3am or 4am or even 5am. A small heater kept me warm. My desk lamp did not disturb my wife. In sleep, my brain would continue to work on my study matter. At times, I wondered if I had slept. Of course I had. That routine was only for five nights. Every Wednesday night, my wife and I would walk to the local cinema to see a double-feature program. It was a lovely break from the grinding study, in the company of my wife. We were happy then.

On Saturday mornings, I usually woke up after two hours of sleep, and sold clothing at Myer's men's store between 9am and noon. I usually had a quick lunch with a couple of Asian friends, then went into the State Library. There, I would ignore the elderly men, in somewhat dilapidated condition, dozing at the tables in a corner. They were not bothered by the staff. Comparably, in Singapore, Chinese students were allowed to study in air conditioned eating houses without buying any food. From the library, I would go to meet my wife and some friends for dinner, and then out to a show. Or, I would go home and cook a meal to entertain a couple of our many friends. Since I have a flair for collecting interesting people, we soon had a core of close friends and a circle of more casual friends. Most of our friends could be described as ethnic but with Anglo-Aussie partners or spouses. Many of the Europeans were immigrants, some of whom were war-displaced refugees. There were many interesting stories to be heard.

On Saturday night, after our lovemaking, I would sleep for about 10 hours. Study recommenced after an early lunch at about 1pm. I went to bed at about 2am. The other night for another extended lovemaking was Wednesday night. As the springs would creak loudly for a while, I wondered if my wife was sending a message to her parents. That did not stop her from losing her temper once in a while. That, however, stopped when one of my fingers was cut deep to the bone with a razor blade late one night.

It was very late, after her parents had gone to bed, that my wife suddenly lost her temper. I was very tired after a long day, and needing the sleep that I could not expect to enjoy that night. I decided that, in the circumstances, I would end it all. Without saying a word, I went to the bathroom cabinet and took out a razor blade. I remember my clear intention to slit my left wrist, hoping for permanent peace. I had had enough of life. Seeing what I was about to do, my wife screamed a different tune, and grabbed my hands. During my resistance, my forefinger was cut to the bone.

I did not care any more. Alarmed by their daughter's screams of panic, her poor parents (how I pitied them) rushed out of bed. They managed to get their doctor out of bed, took me to his surgery, had my finger sewn up, and returned me home. With a couple of pain killers, I commenced my studies for the night. No one said anything about this episode, ever. My work colleagues teased me for weeks about my upright hand, held in a sling, with the forefinger pointed in a manner they considered rude. Humour does lighten pain.

Our life returned to its previous routine. Our favourite Saturday evening entertainment was at a small restaurant with an intimacy-encouraging dance floor and a great band. It was very European – the food, the music, and the atmosphere, with a mainly European clientele. In the Australia of the 1950s, it was a unique place.

In our restaurant there would, almost inevitably, be a most attractive Aussie chick with an older, often ugly, European fellow present, who would pull out a substantial roll of money to pay for their meal. Luckily for him we were honest folk. The cops called in from time to time, ostensibly to see that alcohol was not being consumed at an unlicensed eatery. They never found any bottles on the tables. If they were in a particular mood, they would find some bottles under one of the tables and confiscate them. None of those at the table would be prepared to admit ownership. The proprietor solved our problem by inviting the cops, as they arrived, into his kitchen for a quick feed and a drink. There was no more pretence about inspections or confiscations.

One evening, a rare Anglo-Aussie male took the floor with us. He was rude in bouncing some of us off the tiny floor. So, with a solidly build Anglo-Aussie partner from my group, I danced in such a way that her broad hips knocked him off balance each time we went past. He woke up to what we were doing, and threatened to punch me. When I invited him to do so, he was attacked orally by a couple of European men, both strangers, for picking on a little Indian. I wasn't punched. He and his partner soon left. It was all good, clean fun. An idiot local had to learn to behave in foreign territory.

Saturday mornings were both interesting and a challenge. After only about two hours of sleep, I needed to be on the go. That I was, as a salesman. Since regular customers at a major store went straight to the counter where they expected experienced service, we casuals were required to capture those drifting around the stands, when we were not folding, putting away, or straightening, the clothing. Each of us signed our own sales dockets. This told management how useful each one of us was. At the end of my first morning, I found the senior staff looking at me, and obviously talking about me, whilst I waited for permission to depart. This was usually a quarter of an hour after noon. I found out the next week that I had somehow been equal top salesman on my first effort. I then noticed that number one salesman was keeping an eye on me each Saturday. So, I decided that henceforth I would give him a run for his money, just for the hell of it. I showed soon that I could sell, even by picking up apparent waifs from the floor.

How did I do it? My first rule was that no one walked out of the store unless the garment bought fitted well. I would say "You can't walk out of this store looking light that" if the garment's shape or colour did not suit. Everyone liked that. The second rule was never to pressure customers to pay more than they wanted, especially if the customer's appearance suggested to me a low capacity to pay. Relative poverty will be found, even as jobs proliferated, often because of a psychological inability to manage money. Of course, family or personal illness or other difficulty might also prevail. At sales time, I would also point out those garments which were on a genuine discount, and those bought in for sale at a low price. By pointing out the quality differences, more often than not, I sold the slightly more expensive but more durable garment, but only if the fit was good. I had no idea if I continued to rattle the department's top man, but I kept myself awake and interested in my job. I need challenge. I need to be busy. Driving myself to get results is fun.

Indeed, I realised that, even with the most menial of jobs, or the most boring segments of my university subjects, all that I had to do was to evoke an interest in the task, and boredom would be buried. This, I found to be a valuable approach, when I later became a graduate base-grade clerk in the public service at 29, and everyone above me (except the boss) was younger than I. There I found interest in the most menial of tasks, like proofreading, photocopying, and running to and from the typing pool. I was pretty damn good at fooling myself.

For a wannabe psychologist, my job selling clothes offered a wonderful opportunity to study mankind. One morning, a young fellow student turned up with her new boyfriend. After exchanging greetings, she told me that he wanted some underpants. What kind, I asked him. How many kinds are there, she asked. I described the boxer shorts, which were not suitable for chasing trams or trains. For such a physical activity or for running away from an amorous girl, he could buy jocks. But these did not provide an opening where needed. A Y-front might be the way to go. He'll try them all, she said. Ah, I thought. A very definite Jewish mama in the making. The lad bought six pairs. I felt that he did not wish to repeat that morning's performance. Interestingly, all the Jewish-Australians I have met always identified themselves as Jewish.

Seeing that their families were not exactly welcomed with open arms by Australians, even when it was known that the arrivals were escapees or refugees from the Nazis, it was not surprising to find ethnic pride professed so readily. But then their leaders do work hard to maintain the coherence of this small community; and to exercise political power, not just influence. It is also fascinating that about 80,000 to 100,000 Australians defining themselves as Jews are said to be so successful in dominating the nation's Middle East policy, that any sympathy expressed publicly for the plight of innocent Palestinians is attacked ferociously.

Another interesting occasion was when I approached two very expensively dressed tourists. It was the beginning of our summer. They did not seem impressed when I pointed out that they might need some summer clothing soon. Their leather jackets would be unsuitable in the coming heat. Guessing from their superior Germanic expressions and the quality of their clothing that price would not be a concern, I showed them the best we had, telling them when some garment did not present them at their best. I made a killing that morning, but asked a senior staffer to do the paperwork and initial it. Thus, I made sure that I was no threat to anyone. It was only a lifetime later that I would show up a rat of a boss by outshining him in a complex policy or negotiating task.

One cold winter morning, another young casual and I were decked out in newly arrived duffel coats. Mine was bottle green, the other was another garish colour. It might have been orange. We were told to walk around the streets in central Melbourne, where our store was. After a while, we felt that the public's interest seemed to be not so much on the coats as on us. It was soon obvious. The whistles suggested to us that we were seen as 'poncy poofters'; that is, as gays. That was it. We sneaked into a coffee shop and enjoyed a warming coffee. At the end of the hour, we sneaked back into the store, and reported that we had indeed attracted a lot of attention.

The attention might have included some speculation, because the gays were normally out only at close of business. A preferred location was the below road-level front bar of the Hotel Australia. How did I know? Because, inadvertently entering that bar one late afternoon, one of my Ceylonese friends, (the good looking one) was accosted within minutes. The poor fellow was so disturbed, indeed frightened, that we had to leave soon.

Myer's was internationally respected for its Christmas windows. They were indeed spectacular. Those responsible were said to be gays. During my previous sojourn in Melbourne, I had found myself one night at a party in a small flat in the centre of the city. When the conversations turned inordinately catty, with a lot of screaming and foul language, I left. I cannot remember who had taken me there.

Remembering that experience took me back again to the time of my initial arrival. I was looking at the river one night near the YMCA where I had a room. I was wearing a RAAF overcoat bought from a disposal store for surplus military clothing, with a scarf. I must have looked quite presentable, not like a lascar. An older man stopped to talk to me. After a brief exchange as to where I had come from, and why I was in Melbourne, I told him that I was looking for private accommodation. He replied that he had a spare room right in the heart of the city. That was good news. His flat was off one of the city's lanes. We went upstairs. The spare room and the flat were acceptable. But there was something in the air that bothered me. As I tried to keep a certain space between us, he kept coming closer and closer. Feeling more and more uncomfortable, I took off in a bit of a hurry, thanking him for his offer. I did not ring him as I promised.

As for my studies, at the end of my first year as a part-time fulltime student, I was surprised that I had achieved an honours pass, not usually handed out to part-time students. When the professor of psychology advised me that I should complete a full psychology degree, as I showed a bent for that subject, I pointed out that I needed a degree as soon as possible. I could not explain my potential marital predicament. I picked up a few more honours passes in the next three years, but was not even considered for one, in my final year, in the very subject for which I was said to have a flair. A senior academic off-handedly said "You are only a pass student." What a put-down! I remember this rude fellow as an extreme right-winger, loudly pontificating on political issues at every opportunity.

This was the fellow who threatened to have the university housing officer's function closed down, because his fellow-Jewish Australian's waiting room did not contain any right-wing magazines. So she told me. Did he have that much power, I wondered. McCarthyism in the USA and prime minister Menzies' reds-under-the-beds policies were not only diminishing Australia as a democratic nation, but also enabled some political posturing. The housing officer, a friend of mine, was however not intimidated.

However, in economic history, the subject on which I spent the least time (because I really had no more time available), I compensated for my lack of detailed knowledge by applying a little social psychology to economic events. Much to my surprise, two senior academics found my novel approaches, or attempted explanations, interesting. In a tutorial, after everyone else had had a say, I would be invited by one of these academics to present my view. He would say in an unusual drawl, "What do you think Mr Ratnaam?," indicating thus that he understood that I was not up-to-date with my reading. That often opened up a barren subject, as I always approached the issues laterally. After all, isn't history a matter of interpretation? The public argument about historiography in the 2000s, and the cultural bias displayed during the blood-letting in an allegedly intellectual exercise, was fascinating, if not pathetic.

Challenging previously written history, which had been based presumably on what had been recorded, both officially and privately, on what had been observed, and on what had been experienced, there now appeared a sentiment which claimed that this 'black armband' view of events had unfairly disparaged the glory of white settlement. There is now a great need, it appears, to redress the balance, in order to show how white Christian settlement had benefited both the black indigene and the land. Oral histories were now obviously unreliable. Only the official record was trustworthy. There were no wars of extermination, of despoliation, of attempted breeding out, etc. Whilst not persuasive, this sentiment is upheld vigorously by some. So is the sentiment that the Indonesians will invade us one day. After all, did not certain academic scholars once uphold the domino theory of the imminent communist takeover of south east Asia were Vietnam to fall into communist native hands?

I graduated in three years, having obtained permission each year to complete the fulltime course while studying part-time.

On graduation, since I was now qualified to be a student counsellor, I applied to the state government for a job. I was told that I was suitable. But, after three years, consistent with normal practice, I would need to be placed as a community psychologist. That would be difficult, I was told by the head of the psychology unit, my interviewer. Why? Because I was "too black." Ye Gods! How on earth do I cope with that? Australians would not accept a black psychologist, he said. When I pointed out Britain's experience, that coloured psychologists were often preferred by those needing guidance or counselling, he was unmoved. His decision was presented to me with complete openness.

Fortunately, a junior psychologist heard our conversation and confirmed it when, a few years later, she joined my office in Canberra. I hoped that this rejection was only a flat- tyre event, not a wheel falling off. The decision was, none the less, a terrible shock; a whole pathway completely blocked. In the mid-1950s I was still black!

Back to the drawing board I went. A postgrad year would define me as an economist, and I would pursue international and other big corporations in Australia for a job. A fourth year of sleep deprivation, with another honours pass, and I was ready to write a masters thesis in economics. Easier masters degrees by examination were not then available. Now they are, to cater for those large numbers of Asian students whose English is limited.

In the middle of my studies, I had changed jobs. I became a permanent employee, with an improved wage. My work as a senior accounts clerk in a major private company was similar to my experience in the Department of Defence. To authorise payments for purchases, I had to transfer certain data from order documents. Again, I must have done this with my eyes and hands only. My boss said that I used to whistle very softly as I worked. I know that my mind was sorting through what I had read the previous night. I remember that I had two stamp pads and two pens. With both hands, I would stamp and initial both documents, which amused my boss. I must have been a bloody machine in operation. However, no authorisation by me ever came back to be corrected. This showed how the brain can work at more than one level simultaneously.

The postgrad year was interesting. That was the year Sputnik, the Russian space vehicle, took to the skies. Our professor asked the class studying theories of economic development what Sputnik signified. All twelve of the other students had nothing to suggest. We had all come from work. To lighten matters, I suggested that the event had implications for the common belief that what goes up must come down. The prof was not amused. He had come out from a cocktail party, and wished to return to it speedily.

Whilst I was completing the postgrad year, I had been interviewed, through the help of the head of the university's graduate employment office, by a number of major companies. Yes, good qualifications, personality, attitude, approach, obviously bright fellow, etc., but the Australian worker was not yet likely to accept a foreign executive, especially a coloured one. That was that. The head admitted his inability to place me with any of the companies he thought suitable. If an international company would not take me, where could I turn? Whilst the climbing of any height begins at the base, I needed to find a structure offering suitable heights for career betterment.

So yet another flat-tyre event. It was still in the mid-1950s. Clearly, lovely sweet-tasting mangoes are not to be found on jungle vines. I felt like that fellow who said somewhere "If I peddle salt, it rains; if I peddle flour, the wind blows." Learning the lessons of life is like rowing upstream; not to advance is to drop back. A horrendous cliff faced me. Where was the track to the top?

So, I stood at the base of the lighthouse, where it is always dark. Could I find a door into the lighthouse, so that I could throw a little light onto the world of racial prejudice and ethno-cultural separation?

Strangely, I was not despondent, in spite of both traditional paths for a graduate in psychology and economics being solidly blocked. Perhaps I realised intuitively that the blockage represented only the judgements of decision makers about the probable behaviour of others. These assessments could be wrong, couldn't they? Could I therefore find some way to change or moderate those views? Could I find a worm-hole between the universe I was in and the ones I felt I had a right to enter?

There was, however, a subterranean message seeping through some of the responses I received. It was: Go back home, where you will be wanted. But these executives were not Asians married to Anglo-Aussies who preferred to stay close to their mothers. Indeed, many a marriage broke up when some federal public servants were re-located, mainly from Melbourne, to Canberra. Some of the wives allegedly missed their mums. Canberra's barren undeveloped cityscape, and the limited lifestyle it offered, may have been influential.

During this potentially soul destroying process, involving two significant flat-tyre episodes, the head of the graduate employment office and I became friends. We enjoyed a good red wine from time to time at the soon-to-be famous Jimmy Watson's hostelry. The head advised me to get to Canberra, the national capital, as soon as possible. The door into the federal public service was closed for graduate entrants over thirty years of age. Why thirty? Who knows? Bureaucrats, safely ensconced, were free to develop weird management concepts, then and later.

I came across Jimmy Watson's when he had a small bar which seemed to be filled with wine sippers of the dilapidated kind, with a bottle shop by its side. In the bar, a 'thruppenny dark' was the drink of the day, I was told. A young Aussie lass and I had been designated to buy the drinks for a small party that night. There we stood outside the bottle shop discussing whether we should buy some wine, about which we knew nothing. The girl's background was sherry or Pimms, the acceptable social drinks for middle class lassies and ladies. Mine was beer or whisky. We decided to ask the man sitting at his counter, not realising that he had heard us. He therefore knew us to be simpletons as regards his goods. I believe he decided to educate us, in the middle of an empty afternoon. Starting with sweet dessert wines, he took us to white wines, then to red wines, and finally to fortified wines. My eyeballs were spinning by then. Bravely we bought some wines, and had a successful party that evening.

Whilst we cannot claim responsibility for the popularity that Jimmy's saloon achieved shortly, we began the process by joining the 'winos' on some late afternoons. As the number of students and staff at Watson's grew, the winos moved off. I suspect that they did not like the noisy chatter of young people, because previously the bar had indeed been silent. It also became less smelly. Soon, Watson's was the place to go to from the nearby university. He served cheap but good wines from great big casks imported from various parts of Europe. Within our price range, his Spanish wines were the best. Jimmy was also a great host.

I used to join old friends at Jimmy's for years after I had settled into Canberra, whenever my work took me to Melbourne. On a few occasions, I lunched with my old friend, the graduate employment office head. We would step into a loft with a number of mature men, and Jimmy himself would provide different wines and a range of tasty food in the form of salamis, cheeses and such like..

I never knew the background of some of the people present. On one occasion, I had a ding-dong debate with a very confident man about Canberra's civic architecture. He liked it but I did not. Each thought the other was either an architect or a designer. Neither was. But we must have been entertaining, for no one interrupted our allegedly erudite sojourn into the aesthetics and functions of public buildings in a capital city, and the associated planning and lifestyle imperatives.

I applied to join the federal public service in Canberra, and was accepted. So, to Canberra for yet another launching. I had to defer completing my masters degree until I had settled into my job and into a home. I was to join the Statistician's Branch of the Treasury and to live in Reid House. Working for the Treasury is attractive for anyone who wants to be an economist. Working in central office would take one closer to the decision makers and senior advisers. I therefore looked forward to an interesting job with good career prospects. I envisaged Reid House to be a red-brick hostel surrounded by spacious grounds, with green lawns and lovely shrubbery. I had arrived at last, I felt.

Seeing that I would be entering a new frontier, I would seek to discover what was forbidden and what was permissible. I planned to cross every visibly shallow river as if it were deep. After all, Canberra was still in White Australia, and I would stick out like a sore thumb. I would need to put in a lot of effort in order to fit, I suspected. Yet, I really did not like the idea of being a public servant. I could not foresee scope for initiative or innovation, only routine upon routine. It is, however, the duck foraging in the mud vigorously, not merely paddling serenely, which finds necessary sustenance.

I left Melbourne, a city I liked, and which was maturing into a cosmopolitan capital, with the same optimism that I left Singapore. Canberra would be colder, drier, and offer little of the attributes, services, attractions and comfort that Melbourne had. Still, beggars can't be choosers, can they? I decided to drive to Canberra with friends who had once lived there. I did not know then that I would never see my kind mother-in-law again. I would miss my close friends terribly too.

My time-constrained and sleep-deprived schedule during my recovery phase did not permit me any significant effort to study society. However, there were major developments impinging on all of us. First, we had educated, cosmopolitan war-displaced persons amongst us. I studied with, worked and socialised with some of these. This exposure actually commenced during my downhill phase; that is, during my previous stay in Australia. By going out with a girl with a number on her arm, and spending some time with her family, including the most gorgeous redhead one could ever meet, a four-year old girl, I came to understand and to sympathise with the plight of the Jewish people under the Nazis.

Substantial contact with other Europeans gave me an insight into European politics and life. I also got to know a few Czechoslovakian and Hungarian refugees escaping the Soviet. Then, there were migrants of the able-bodied kind. It was more difficult to meet them and to communicate with them. I remember half a dozen Sicilians in my guest house; we just smiled at one another. In a house I passed every day to go to work, there were two Italian families, growing a vegetable garden in their front yard. Exchanging smiles was all that was available. Their Anglo-Aussie neighbours also did the same, although they grumbled privately about the veggie garden. However, every six months or so, one of the Italian families would move out, to be replaced promptly.

In the 1980s, when I was involved in studies on migrant settlement, we saw a wonderful pattern. Within a generation, the immigrants who had been poor on arrival moved to better suburbs. Their children reportedly did better in life, post school, than did those of the Anglo-Aussies. Many immigrants, especially the shop keepers and traders, became rich. The ethnic clubs in the capital cities provide the necessary evidence. Through some sort of instinct, plus my work in the 1980s, I, whilst remaining poor materially, felt enriched by meeting and getting to know well immigrants from almost every source country – from Iceland, through the rest of Europe, to central and south America, and to the Middle East, and the rest of Asia.

Thus, in terms of humanity, and a very necessary ethnic diversity, I saw the beginnings of a new Australia.

But politically, we continued to live under the reds-under-bed regime, much beloved by the Menzies government. The McCarthy regime was well known to us. ASIO, the secret security service, was believed to be observing anyone who looked a little pink. I admit to my early prejudice; that a socialist was obviously a communist. That did not stop me from drinking with them, if they were interesting, to find out what made them tick. That prejudice reflected my family's experience under the extortionist and brutal communist-led anti-Japanese near the end of the Japanese occupation of Malaya. My book, 'The Wheels Fell Off; the dance of Destiny', provides details.

We Asian students from British-held territories expected to be scrutinised closely by British security. However, at Melbourne University, some of us identified the wrong man, a professor with known connections to British security. Much later, we pointed the finger at a fellow Asian student, acting as agent for his professor. None of this mattered. We were either good or poor students. Our social life was variable. Politically, we were eunuchs.

Whilst observing society evolving was fascinating, I had now to commence my trek into the hinterland, to seek to achieve a more stable life; one with a future. Canberra called.

### Chapter 4

THE TREK TO THE NEW WORLD

The cat, having sat upon a hot stove lid,

will not sit upon a hot stove lid again.

Nor upon a cold stove lid.

\- Mark Twain (1835 – 1910)

The Launching

I was not as smart as that cat. When I arrived in Canberra, I sought and found my accommodation, Reid House. As soon as I saw it, I was ready to return to the uncertainty of life in Melbourne. It was very hot. The air was very dry. There was a barren atmosphere about the place.

Reid House was not a red-brick building set in green surrounds. It was a retired army barracks, a hostel for men set in a 'desert' near an intersection. Across the road was a similar complex for women. According to reliable rumours, a number of the women, mostly young, received nocturnal visitors via their windows. These agile and opportunistic men included not only young men from across the road but also politicians, who are usually older; but obviously agile. Indeed, politicians were often described as nocturnal visitors at all the public hostels or guest houses. The latter were indeed red-brick buildings set in green surrounds. Only the more important people, or senior public servants, or those who had served their apprenticeships in the ex-army camps could rise into them.

My room was pokey, and the tin roof and fibro walls allowed me to share the outside temperature whilst in bed. It was too claustrophobic to just sit in. My hut was noisy. Most of the residents were young. They were inclined to be loud and boisterous in a manner that their parents would surely not have allowed. The food, whilst plentiful, was awful; typical cafeteria food of the kind found at the YMCA. I was ready to leave after a week, but where could I go? Fortunately, there were two other residents older than the others. The three of us would have a couple of beers each evening before dinner. This made the food more palatable, except on Thursday nights. Then we had what seemed to have come off the bottom of army boots. In a population of under 50,000 I seemed to be the only non-white. Everyone was, however, friendly and courteous, but inquisitive.

My fellow residents were naturally conscious about my presence there. Had I been sent by my government to obtain experience in a public service department? That was a reasonable assumption, as Canberra was a public service town. A compromise between the two major states had led to the national capital being established in the middle of a desert. Flying into Canberra made that picture plain. Then, public service head offices, followed by lesser agencies, were re-located to Canberra. Families who had lived in a modern city were transferred to a town with few civic, shopping or transport facilities. Many a wife went back to mum, it was said. A car was essential, just to get to Sydney to buy clothing and essential commodities; as well as to go on holidays. Weekend holidays were available at the coast, about two hours away by car.

It was a place which was dry at all times, very hot in summer, and bitterly cold (below freezing point) in winter. The icy winds in mid-winter came from the snows visible on the distant hills. I found they are called mountains. Unfortunately, they were not the highest in the southern hemisphere. Flying over them shows a few pimples on the ground. A squeegee was necessary to scrape off the frost forming on car windscreens by 11pm. Alternatively, one carried old newspaper to cover the windscreen.

A visiting lecturer, irrespective of subject matter, dance troupes (excluding the African bare-breasted female dancers), and theatrical shows of all kinds drew us like moths to a lit electric bulb. We could thus be excited but not burnt. The African dancing girls were, however, a worry to many a young wife. Some of my colleagues were not allowed to attend that show. Since most of us were young, there really was no need to feast our eyes on foreign fare, even something so enticing.

Birth and marriage rates were high amongst the young people. Cold nights and lonely people meant a sufficient contribution to population growth. Indeed, two large buildings which housed unattached girls in mid-town came to be known as the baby farm. There was no disrespect associated with that term. The injunction to go forth and multiply seemed to me to pervade the air.

In reply to the question as to who and what I was, I replied honestly that I was a new settler. To those who were alert to government policy on immigration, I decided to be more honest. I said that I had been sent to lend a bit of colour to an otherwise colourless nation. That went down like a lead balloon. That reply, I hasten to say, was restricted to those whose demeanour suggested that there had to be something wrong in me being allowed into the country. Most of the residents were happy to have me, as I was to be with them.

The small population of the city, about forty seven thousand, seemed to be cohesive. Were one to hit the town on Friday night shopping and on Saturday morning, one was likely to meet everyone one had come to know. There were no grey heads around. The senior men in the public service were not old enough yet. One also got to meet the academics, the diplomats and the military people casually. One would have to be homebound not to meet a cross-section of the population. Naturally their accents identified many of the academics and most of the diplomats.

My wife had, in the meantime, gone to Britain for a holiday with a girlfriend and was, according to her frequent letters, having a good time. She had, thankfully, made friends there with that sister of mine with whom she had started her fight when we had been together in Malaya in my mother's home.

The idea of working for the Treasury, the pre-eminent economic policy agency, excited me. But, the alleged Statistician's Branch was actually the independent Bureau of Statistics. The Bureau's central office occupied one end, the Treasury the middle, and the equally independent Tax Office, the other so-called Branch, was at the other end of a building named West Block. At 29, I was a base-grade clerk, with only the very young clerical assistants below me. Even non-graduate clerks were senior to me.

On my first task, I proved that an error had been made in a published statistic. I did this simply by being careful in extracting some recorded data and adding up these figures. The three men who set out to prove me wrong were unsuccessful, and so I became accepted as a statistician. As they say in the Aussie classics "Whacko!"

I then had to put up with a new form of Aussie humour. Two clowns, Weedon and Newton (how could I forget these two?), decided to have fun at my expense. They began to refer to me as Raja the Rat. Without thought, I promptly referred to them as Dopey the Weed and Hoppy the Newt. By the time the laughter in the room had subsided, I was an accepted member of the team.

But, I did wonder at their familiarity, if not rudeness, with a new staff member. I was older than they. I was also the most junior. As might be expected, public servants do not normally come from educated or sophisticated families. They mature as they rise up the ladder. However, as I found progressively, many were acculturated enough to appreciate classical music and good books. The other components of high culture – dance, art, poetry, etc – may have been lacking. But, they could grow to appreciate these, as I did.

Within a few days I was moved into the prestigious Balance of Payments Branch, headed by a dynamo, only three years older than I was. He had, by working sixty hours each week, become an expert within a year in a difficult area. He was also tough enough to tell more senior officers from Treasury to put their own political spin on interpreting his pristine figures. He would not be political, he said. This was in spite of the reality that a substantial component of balance of payments statistics are only estimates, some of which were necessarily intelligent guesswork. Within a couple of years, I too was involved in making these estimates.

Quarterly and half-yearly estimates, needed by the Treasury, were indeed near-guesses. The yearly estimates, which subsequently achieved the status of data, were based upon as much recorded statistics as possible. In time, I contributed to some computer-based estimates, which were more speedy. Because I tend to question what we were doing, and why, I was required to establish a continuous record of the Bureau's estimates, going back to prewar days. This required reconciling the different bases of the estimates. I thus became more and more knowledgeable. I quickly learned that the non-political Treasury did like to put a gloss on our figures. The objective presumably was to demonstrate to the Treasurer that they were doing a good job.

My boss was the templet when, a few years later, I decided to change from a self-effacing intellectual-sounding Asian to a driving Aussie manager. Apparently, my discussions, official and otherwise, were often couched in jargon phrases from the social sciences. I soon learnt to say, without anger, words like "pull your finger out" to someone slacking on his job on my watch. This was just as well, because each time I sought promotion to a level at which I supervised or managed staff, my boss was asked how those below me accepted my authority. The fear that the Australian worker might not accept a foreign supervisor, manager or executive seemed to be enduring. I certainly had to prove my acceptance by underlings again and again. But, I never had any trouble being accepted, I had not studied psychology for nothing.

Indeed, the young lads who collected the attendance registers were kind to me for no reason. Were I to be late by a few minutes, the lads would leave a space for me before ruling off the attendance record, and collect our register last. If I were really late, I took my time and the register would be gone. I would then sign on in the presence of a rude Rottweiler. Obviously, I did not do that very often.

However, one morning, when I had lost my voice through an infection but did not feel unwell enough to stay home, I took my own sweet time getting to work. As I sauntered through the car park about a half hour late, I saw a little man (that is, he was my size) wearing that gabardine overcoat much loved by Melbournians. It came to nearly his ankles. He entered by the back door close to the Bureau of Statistics, as I entered by the back door close to the Tax Office. As our paths crossed within the building, I became suddenly aware of a pair of very penetrating eyes. Oops! I thought, Who is he? Then I saw him turn into the Treasury's inner sanctum. He was, I found later, only the Deputy Secretary, the second most powerful man in the whole building. And I had not recognised him. So I got my boss to agree that I, instead of the messenger boys, would deliver that week's copies of a particular report to all the senior officers of Treasury and Taxation. I thus identified all those I needed to acknowledge whenever I met them.

But not everyone I met recognised me as a lowly clerk. I use to wear a sports coat and slacks of quality, or when I went out, a silver grey suit with tan suede shoes. One wore lace-up shoes with a suit; casual shoes (slip-ons) were acceptable only with sports clothes. On cold mornings, I might wear a polo-neck skivvy instead of the traditional white shirt and tie. Coloured shirts were not acceptable. Most public servants wore dark grey suits with lace-up black shoes. I must have stood out like an oddball. This led to some interesting episodes.

At the back bar of the Hotel Canberra nearby, not only those from Treasury, Tax and Stats, but also other officers from departments in town would foregather. Between six and eight pm on a pay Friday, when there were few of us left, I might have some very interesting discussions about economics or society. Naturally, one did not ever say what work one did or where. However, I was apparently often in the company of senior officers. Since, in time, everyone came to know who everyone else was, I did wonder what these senior men thought about that junior clerk in Stats when they discovered who he was.

The head of the Bureau and his Deputy were recognised by their peer group as excellent administrators. They played the kind cop/tough cop roles beautifully, as I once discovered when I challenged the latter about not keeping to his word with me. They recruited young people with competence who, having received valuable training in statistics, would move on to what they considered to be greener pastures. It was a huge agency, with about 1,800 employees throughout the nation, about 350 of whom were in head office. I observed that the head had an impressive talent for remembering every one of his central office staff.

Meeting one in the corridor, he would ask about the new baby, or the wife's illness, or whatever was the significant event in that employee's life at that time. I later discovered that his secretary had a card index covering each employee. Every significant change in an employee's life was brought to the head's attention. He was personally helpful to me when I needed some support. That was the era of the mandarins. They were confident and caring men, blending their authority with gentility. They were seen to provide independent advice to ministers.

In return for the head's help, I accepted the job of secretary of the Bureau's social club. The first year I organised the club's children's party, I went home very tired late in the afternoon. I slept through the deadline for voting at the federal election. It was my first opportunity ever to exercise a democratic vote, and I had missed out. Naturally, I was fined. I have been a keen follower of politics ever since.

In my first few weeks, a younger but more senior colleague talked me into joining the public service union, the ACOA. I accepted that I had to belong to an employee union. I was told that membership would offer me protection. I found no such thing when I needed protection some years later in a couple of serious circumstances. My colleague had me sign two forms. He then welcomed me as a member and then as a fellow ACOA branch councillor (a shop steward equivalent). He was the other councillor in the agency. When I objected to becoming an instant shop steward he just laughed. What was I to do with a colleague who had befriended me from my first day in that office?

As I went down a corridor later, the deputy personnel manager sarcastically congratulated me on my elevation. I explained how I had been tricked, and asked for his advice. And that was – stay with it. You will learn a lot, but do not become party to any form of politicking, he said. That was very sound advice. I did learn a great deal, but no one warned me that working for a union was a career hazard for one aspiring to get near the top of the tree. My experience as an ACOA Branch Councillor is a later story.

This was not the only strange thing that happened to me. As soon as I settled in, I joined the university hockey club. I had been an A-grade player in Melbourne before my sleep denying studies. The other players were from all over the nation. We were all a little rusty in our joints, and our eyesight might not have been that good. But we were keen. We knew what we had to do, if only the ball wasn't so fast.

I must have been a pretty good player in Melbourne. For, years later, when my son showed a certain skill in hockey, the father of another player of my son's age told my wife about my former competence. He then went on to tell his son to watch out for my son, "that kid with the dark hair." I had come from a family of sportsmen. A cousin, the one I had looked after for two months after his mother had died when he was only eighteen months old, subsequently represented Malaysia at the Olympics. It was therefore not surprising that my son should be selected for the ACT (that is, Canberra) representative hockey side, from under-8 to under-12, as well as the rep side in soccer from under-8 to under-12.

At my first training session in Canberra I gazumped the previous left-half; that is, I replaced him in the team. It is a relatively difficult position, in which I had specialised. The next morning, he walks in wearing his senior officer of Treasury hat to discuss our balance of payment data. Luckily for me, he did not blame me for knocking him off his perch. I probably saved his knees. For, the prevailing standard of hockey was low. Defenders made up for their lack of skill by bashing any attacker. I have had my stick broken under my hand and a finger joint severely damaged.

At work, in about eight months from scratch, I had been promoted twice to reach the income level I had left behind in Melbourne. But it had been a bit of a battle. A few weeks after settling in, I asked the head of management when I might be promoted to Research Officer Grade 1, which seemed to me the starting level for graduates. "In about 12 months" he said. "What about my work experience and my maturity?" "Sorry!" I immediately applied for a RO1 position with the Bureau of Agricultural Economics where I would do research work, an enticing proposition. Almost immediately the head of Stats called me into his office. I was wanted by the head of the other bureau. If I stayed I would be looked after. I agreed to stay. Four months later, I was RO1.

The vacant RO2 in my branch was then filled by a new arrival. But I was doing all the short-term estimates, which should have been the responsibility of those above me. So I applied to the Prime Minister's Department, where they sought to promote me to RO2. Their reason for choosing me was that I knew a great deal about the European Economic Community being formed. I was called down again by the head of Stats. I explained that I wanted to recover the income level I had left behind in Melbourne, and that I should be paid for the level at which I was working. He asked me to stay. Four months later, I was RO2. That was not all I wanted. Whilst I had recovered my income level in 8 months, I needed a higher income to meet the higher cost of living in Canberra.

Sometime the following year, as I saw other RO2s being promoted, I applied for a job with the Public Service Board. I was wanted. I was called down again. I was obviously valuable. I said that I wanted to catch up with my age cohort. I claimed that my previous work experience was comparable, indeed more relevant, than the work undertaken by my age cohort on their way up. My job would be upgraded to Senior RO1, I was promised. It was I who, however, had to prove that my work warranted the higher classification! When the re-classification was approved, I was asked by the head if I would wait. Dear me, I must seem acquiescent. He wanted to bring in a 'bright lad' from interstate. Being a reasonable fellow I agreed.

Said bright lad occupied my position but in another area for six months, then moved to Treasury. Six months later, he moved into the office of Gough Whitlam, MP. Our bright lad was a staunch Laborite. Subsequently, he went to work as a gopher for Rupert Murdoch, media mogul. Murdoch's 'The Australian' supported, at every opportunity, Labor's claim to power federally. When the ALP achieved office in 1972, said gofer was made head of the Prime Minister's Department. A _quid pro quo?_ Eight months after the Whitlam Government was replaced, the head of PM's was made ambassador to Japan. On his return, he was made head of what was said to be the twenty-seventh department in a twenty-seven department public service, the Department of Immigration.

There, he denied me the promotion promised me by his predecessor. Subsequently, in two moves, he got what he apparently wanted badly. Then, with a change of government to Conservative, all Laborite 'roosters' were said to have become 'feather dusters'. The bright lad cost me not only the higher wages due to me in Stats for six months, but also my promotion in Immigration.

About a year and a half later, since I was doing the work of the deputy head of my Branch, I asked for a promotion. Nothing happened, I applied to the Department of Trade. I was wanted. Again came the call from the head. "We'll look after you", he said. I accepted that. I then went on leave. I came back early and found that the position promised to me had gone to someone else. If I had not come back when I did, it would have been too late for me to appeal. I rang the deputy head of Stats and said "You broke your promise." "Come down," he growled. "We had to," he explained when I faced him. "What will you do?" "I'll appeal" I replied. I obviously angered the man. Through a dance of two steps, many months later, I was SRO2. I would need to watch my back.

When the job I really wanted came along, I applied, and won it. I had thirteen appellants from within that agency; another four were fellow promotees. I won again. I had six good years in the new job, being promoted in two steps to the level of director, the top of the administrative division. I had reached that level in a career of about nine years, a good track record for one not pre-selected as a future leader.

I reached that level because of the mature and fair heads of my first two agencies. They were not influenced by my foreign origins. Interestingly, and purely as an aside, my work-value investigations (a hobby activity) on behalf of my trade union showed that through the arbitral mechanism, colonels, senior lecturers, primary school principals, and heads of public service sections (or directors) were on comparable salary bands. What a fascinating insight into relative responsibilities.

Before me stood the bright lights of the Senior Executive Service (SES), offering my own stenographer, a carpet which went from wall to wall (mine was a foot short on all sides), and a larger desk. I was not to know then what great efforts would be made by senior management in the next two agencies to ensure that I would not plant my feet too firmly in the SES. In each of these agencies, I had managed a Branch as an acting SES officer for almost a whole year, without any criticism of my skills or output.

In a Malay-dominated Malaysia, two of my cousins had been accepted as chief of policy, one in medical services, the other in pharmaceutical services; a relative by marriage had reached the rank of admiral in the Malaysian navy; another relative by marriage had become head of a harbour board; and a family friend had become the chairman of a government board in Chinese-dominated Singapore.

I now realised that I should have stayed with my own people. Equal opportunity for the foreigner in Australia, especially the coloured ones? Elephants might display a propensity for levitation first. In so many areas, it is clear that Australia remains firmly in the hands of white people, although some positions of influence, especially in politics, are now occupied by people of European stock, with a couple of Asian exceptions.

In the public sector, the status symbols of the SES led some officers to fool themselves with their image of importance. Worse were some of their wives. To be fair, however, until about the late 1970s, the most senior men were gentlemanly in their mien, courteous in manner. It was later that a more rude and crude breed, of all sexes, reached the peak of a secure existence. Where there is no measurable marker of outcomes, effectiveness, or efficiencies, as in the private sector, there was a lot of scope for newly arrived charlatans to pull up one another in a fast-expanding bureaucracy. In this effort, some were known to use the media (off the record, of course), and others were believed to have performed favours for ministers. Subsequently, it all became political, with the minister's pleasure the only test of proficiency.

However, I do believe the federal public service to be financially honest. The areas in which I worked, except for pockets in my last agency, were akin to goldfish bowls. There was little to no scope for any corrupt behaviour. No one could possibly have become rich. I did have reason to suspect one individual in the 1980s, but he was allowed to resign quietly and very suddenly. My seniors said nothing to me. I therefore suspected an inter-country political connection of some significance. Any alleged corruption by federal politicians is, in my view, akin to petty theft, in contrast to the grand larceny reported in certain other countries.

In my life, there were a few curious developments. In the second agency, the Tariff Board, I was disparaged as a free trader. A free trader knows that artificial barriers to competition, especially through tariff protection, permit both uneconomic and inefficient enterprise. The nation may eat better, but is not internationally cost competitive, because of the higher cost and higher export prices resulting from the tariff barrier. In the long run, exports are needed to pay for necessary imports. Inefficiency also involves both technical and economic inefficiency. Australia had small production plants, to cater only for the Australian markets. The foreign parent company would supply, at lower cost, customers not available to Australia. Because of limited output, and local production being split between two geographically dispersed centres, the technology used was likely to be out-of-date and thereby relatively inefficient. But, who cared?

Why was I disparaged? Because, in my first report, I recommended to the Board and the Minister that the tariff protection for the product manufactured in Australia should be removed. That was heresy. All the time I was there, there was no change to the philosophy of tariff protection. For, the role of the public service is to maintain the status quo, until the minister wants a change. From time to time, needed change is introduced; but no one would want to introduce change without administrative, political or other benefit. However, gossip within the agency suggested that a couple of senior personnel were posturing as free traders.

Canberra's gossip machine is exceedingly accurate. For example, early one morning I was told about a senator being tabled in parliament by a fellow senator the previous night. When we heard that two ministers had reminded their respective heads that policy is decided by ministers, not heads of their agencies, we were inclined to accept the rumours as credible. The reported display of clay feet by certain other departmental heads was also credible.

I believed the claim by one of my colleagues that he had been advised to look for a job elsewhere after he had, whilst a recruit to the agency, rejected a certain proposition by his agency head. Then there was a division head, a self-titled womaniser, who was reported to have seduced one of his junior officers when she was intoxicated, and left her sleeping behind a protective shrub in a public park in the approaching dusk. In a city with limited outlets for randy people, rumours such as these were quite credible, especially if we knew those involved.

In my next agency, the Treasury, the head and his junior deputy became, after their retirement, ardent supporters of the private sector. They had never worked in that sector. Yet, before I left the Treasury, that deputy had rejected my suggestion that the department might out-source to the private sector the personnel, pay, travel and other similar administrative functions. We were, after all, a policy department. I also believe in small government, being a communitarian small-l liberal, and thereby a political orphan.

As said pithily by some unknown wit, the mandarins were giving way to the mongrels. I personally think that this is unfair, although I did suffer under the new breed. One head of division in Treasury, known for his ability to engineer free meals, ensured that his favourite was not challenged, by threatening me about something he claimed to have heard. That was another of his engineering feats. He had spent a little time before that trying to trap me. His challenges were always made during the official lunch hour when I was expected to be away from my desk. Then I caught him in a lie. This damaged his credibility with a major foreign firm. Hence the direct threat as a fall-back measure. I did not contest the job given to the preferred pea.

Another head of division, this time in Immigration, the only senior public servant I considered a racist (which I was able to demonstrate later, by quoting him) used his fishing mate, my immediate boss, to attempt to reduce my status. Indeed on three separate occasions, said racist used my immediate boss (a different one each time) to have me sidelined so that my job would be given to his preferred pea. Since everyone knew I had been sidelined, I had to pretend that I was still a happy Vegemite in service to mankind. There was no place for pride.

In the public sector universe, parallel to the universe of real business where existence means relative insecurity, and change represents progress, the waters were placid. Senior public servants tended to paddle languidly whilst pretending not to be examining their reflection in the water. When I was the union representative on promotions appeal committees dealing with certain promotions to division head, I was disgusted to find, in certain policy departments, the head focusing on administration instead of on the effectiveness of existing policy. None of these seemed to ask the two core policy questions: Is this what we ought to be doing? If so, how well are we doing it? When challenged by me, the reply was: "I am too busy."

Ministers of the crown were once kept in their place by mandarins following due process with professional impartiality. Departmental heads were also credited in that era with the ability to decide who would join them. With a change of government, all past advisories would be buried, and new directions might be adopted, even if reluctantly. From the early 1970s, however, when a new government set out to change the world overnight by having political party supporters fill senior policy advisory positions in the public service, the process of submitting impartial advice was undermined. Surely, ideology is not an effective substitute for competence in policy.

Later, another ALP government got rid of all the procedures arduously established for career protection in a relatively impartial and efficient public service, and politicised its leadership. These procedures had been achieved through attrition and negotiation by the ACOA, reflecting ten years of hard work by a team led by me for seven years, and for which I received a meritorious service award from the union. And I was the one who always refused to go on strike, as a matter of principle. Strikes generally hurt the innocent. A subsequent conservative government then ensured that the public service is there primarily to serve political ends.

I left my first agency, the Bureau of Statistics, with gratitude for the learning made available to me and the fair treatment I had received. But I needed a different kind of work. In the second agency, the Tariff Board, I received more fair treatment and more learning. I was again fortunate. More importantly, I was free to travel on my own whenever I wished to inspect manufacturers seeking additional government assistance through the tariff. That is, I was trusted. I was subsequently made the first operational team leader, with a team of ten, where previously each of us had worked on our own.

When I went to inspect a production facility and to consult appropriate executives, I was always treated courteously. The people I spoke to responded to my role and to my position. I always came away with an adequate understanding of what was going on in the industry. If I had any reservations about the people I wanted to talk to, I took a colleague. All travel that I sought was approved. The principal reason was that the then Deputy Chairman backed me, after we had had an in-depth discussion early in that job, as to why I sought to inspect production facilities and to consult senior staff. I wanted to get behind the glossy paperwork, and to understand the major players. My recommendations were never overturned by my chiefs or the Board.

The head of the Tariff Board of about one hundred employees was an excellent administrator. With three degrees, he was an expert on Scottish history, and able to describe every Scot who had ever gone out to clobber someone and then gone home again. He was also a historian. The only time I was able to top him in a casual discussion was when I talked about the way the Turks had rigidified some aspects of Islam. As a freemason, he was so fair that junior freemasons claimed that they had to be almost twice as competent as the others. For some reason, he took a liking to me, and I had every opportunity to prove myself, and to introduce new practices.

Perhaps, it was my first report of only eleven pages. Never had anyone written with such brevity in that office I was told. After three hours of checking every figure, every statement, he found no fault. When he challenged my use of the words "In sum" in my last paragraph, I asked what was wrong with that phrase. There was, of course, nothing wrong. That was when mutual respect was established.

In return for his fairness, I accepted the position of president of the social club and cunningly picked my own team. We then set the club's finances on a secure footing by expanding our activities. With a good team, one could achieve a great deal. Whilst strong leadership and the ability to look ahead for opportunities are essential, it is the team that enables the desired results. I have proven this again and again. Of course, a good leader should have first learnt the art of following, and helping to shape the team.

In this small agency, which served a government-appointed Board reporting to a Minister there were Caluthumpians, Roman Catholics, Freemasons and others. There were a couple of Europeans and a couple of Asians. We were a socially well-integrated office. Children's Christmas parties, and annual staff dinners with dancing brought out the wives, who seemed to relate well to one another. At my first staff dinner, after I had danced once with my wife, I invited the wife of my senior colleague, the one whose job had been to train me, to dance. She accepted. None of the others took the floor. I could not understand why my colleague had not reciprocated. Then I noticed that each man danced only with his wife.

That experience set me looking around whenever public servants socialised in the company of their wives. _En masse,_ they were as distinguishable as a category of workers as are the factory hands or those in the uniformed military services. What set the public servants apart? Secure, clean work seemed to be the bottom line for most. In my fourteen years of dealing very closely with the private sector, I could find no one who had even considered working in the public sector. Even with those from a comparable family background, in terms of father's occupation and income, and family social and educational status, there was a significant attitudinal difference. What was the cause of this?

My disinclination to join the public service, I believe, confirms this conclusion. The need to tread water, to maintain the _status quo_ irked me during the three decades or more that I spent in the federal public service, more than two thirds of which allowed me some degree of freedom as a middle manager. To be fair, many who preferred the public service were motivated to serve the nation. There is a need for such people. Others sought power. Some of these were, of course, of benefit to the nation.

Whilst enjoying my work and the companionship in this agency, almost accidentally I became involved with the ACOA again but this is also a later story.

After six happy years, I and a couple of others who had previous been well regarded left. All three of us had been accepted, I believe, as knowledgeable about economics. However, strange changes were in the air. A power shift was perceivable. We thought it wise to leave. It soon became clear that the new agency head had ambitions to expand the agency and to achieve the colouration of the one he had left, using three hand-picked officers. He did eventually achieve his aim. Yet, I wondered whether, after years of computer modelling and stacks of studies, Australia's manufacturing industry had been adequately guided into an operational path to economic efficiency. Could flag or banner bearers, with no private sector work experience, understand the operational ethos of that sector well enough to show the way to such efficiency? I remain willing to be convinced.

Inefficiencies, both economic and technical, had been built into the manufacturing sector by foreign corporations. This had happened when they accepted the invitation by the then Australian government to establish themselves in Australia, under tariff protection, immediately after the second world war. Export prospects were minimal, because of the inordinately high cost of production in Australia. Certain public servants recommended in the 1960s that manufacturers export at prices which were on a marginal cost (that is, not full cost) basis. This was, however, known as dumping, and was therefore illegal.

It was intriguing to note how this new agency head's special advisers attempted to re-write a section of my report dealing with the economics of the chemical industry. We had spent three years on this investigation. My boss was officially responsible for the report. Again and again, we rejected the attempted redrafts of that section of our report. Whoever sought to put his footprint on our report did not adequately understand economics. Finally, we won. At another time, there was a public service-sourced deputy chairman who sought to impose his will, disregarding our objective findings. We were not a public service department. We refused his approach, much to his anger. This clearly demonstrated the urge by some influential public servants to shape the nation to reflect personal aims rather than take a more objective view. The lack of penalties for misdirected action, especially if it is not accountable, provides adequate leeway for unprofessional conduct.

It took a Labor, not a Conservative, government to push manufacturing industry out of its comfortable bed by reducing the protective tariff wall. I wondered what happened then to those directors of manufacturing enterprises who had spoken loftily to me about the government's obligation to support their industry. There were some highly-accented asses about. One of these even tried to impress us during an inspection by referring to his "friend Bob." Who was Bob? The then prime minister, Sir Robert Menzies.

Having worked at the level of director for about three years, I made a terrible career choice. Of the three opportunities available to me, including one in the private sector, I chose the wrong one. Where I had in my first two agencies worked to meet inflexible deadlines or to achieve observable outcomes, I now sat around 'researching'. There were no specified outcomes planned and no deadlines to be met. Unused to this approach, I metaphorically dug a deep hole and jumped into it. That is, I converted a flat-tyre situation into one in which I had to learn to climb out of a crevasse.

In a department whose policies relied upon paying homage to the effulgent beauty of independent market forces, the nation's economic tiller was gently and carefully manipulated by a team led by one who, to my simple mind, seemed to think that he was God; and that, on some days, that he knew he was God. Perhaps, I was just impressed with his superb confidence, based on his ability to moderate market forces. Seemingly, there were no pro-active policies needed. The agency simply reacted, based on data which would relate to a period six months back. It was a handy philosophy: the market decides; only if necessary, will we moderate its effects! Who decides where the economy and the nation should be going, I did wonder. Should Australia take lessons from Singapore?

In my area of policy, there was only the one change sought, but it could not, for political reasons, be achieved. What was sought was a regressive tax policy; that is, one which penalised the poor disproportionately. The tax sought would gladden the heart of any tax gatherer, as it is a growth tax. About a quarter of a century later, this policy was indeed foisted on the public by a prime minister who had been the treasurer when the tax gatherer had been stymied. Interestingly, Australia's economic mentor, the USA, does not have such a tax; that is, a value-added or goods and services tax. The GST now afflicts the old and the poor far more than the middle class. I doubt if the GST is even noticed by the top dogs in the nation, much favoured by the former Conservative government.

Whilst I was in this career hole, I built up my confidence by being active in civil society. In seven years altogether, I achieved a certain track record of community service, which was defined as impressive. I was once told that I could not possibly have achieved all that within that time frame. This is also a later story.

With the help of central management, I moved into an area of work similar to that of my second agency. We were to screen foreign investment proposals, including corporate takeovers. A conservative federal government had surprisingly expressed concern at the loss of control of Australian enterprises. It introduced legislation which was then implemented by the new ALP government. Since the Treasury had reportedly opposed the new policy, it naturally took responsibility for its administration. Being the only one in the new area with direct experience of dealing with the public, especially the leaders of powerful corporations, I was given the job of director of a small team. I developed an appropriate set of procedures. I also interpreted the legislation and the subsequent additional policy. These were confirmed by Attorney-General's Department and by lawyers representing the corporations we dealt with. These procedures were continued as my area developed into an agency eight times the original unit!

I travelled interstate often, leading a team reporting to the three-member advisory board titled the Foreign Investment Review Board. I had the highest security clearance. I enjoyed eight years of this work. I investigated some major or sensitive foreign takeover proposals, generally travelling alone; gave official advice to powerful corporations; and dealt with the Treasurer (or Minister Assisting), face-to-face on some tricky matters. These opportunities arose because I could be trusted. I was well received by those I talked to, including the Ministers. If I had not been ambitious to reach a level of responsibility that I felt was within my competence, I might have been left in peace.

And I did find the posturing of some members of advisory boards fascinating. There is a particular kind of personality, a bully boy personality, which has tickets on itself. The label pompous ass can be heard occasionally. If only these fellows knew how carefully they had been pre-selected by a few canny senior public servants. It was important that those appointed by the Minister respect the advice of his senior public servants.

Then another flat-tyre episode occurred. When the head of my branch of three sections, one of which I headed to his satisfaction, left on a promotion, I was by-passed in the temporary long term filling of the position. I had filled the position short term whenever he had his holidays. This denial of higher duties for the long term was in spite of my two colleagues agreeing that the job was mine. When challenged, with a surface smile topped by cold eyes, the departmental head agreed that I could act in the position. He denied that my prior union work had disadvantaged me in any way. On the contrary, he said he quite liked the way I had gone about that. Whilst I did not believe him, this grammar school-speak gave me some comfort. I worked assiduously without criticism for most of a year but was beaten, even on appeal.

What was disgraceful about the appeal was that the selector also represented the department at the appeal. That was not proper. He had also presented an adverse assessment of my work, which was not made known to me. This was a denial of natural justice. The adverse assessment was such an obvious lie that he had to ensure that I was not informed of it. Who was it who said, "His mouth is honey; his actions are sabre cuts"?

Yet, he had been using me to keep his family jewels off the hot plate whenever the kitchen became excessively hot for him. Then, a few years later, he rings me for advice on an immigration matter.

So, now, it was not the Australian worker but an Australian senior management which was not yet ready for a foreign executive. But then this was the emerging era of the mongrels.

I taught my replacement my recent job. Tongue in cheek, a year later, I asked for his assessment of my work. His written report said that I rarely consulted him! Why on earth would I consult one who had learnt his job from me? When he left fairly soon to prepare ministerial replies for the prime minister, a job which pays well, and is effectively a form of fiction writing with a patronising air (refer that clever British TV program 'Yes Minister'), I was again by-passed. So I left.

As I left, the senior Deputy Secretary, a man for whom I had great respect, told me that our office had been simulating the screening of foreign investment. I had begun to guess that because of certain significant advices given by the head of the office even before a proposed takeover of had been examined. For, the nation survives only through an undiminished inflow of foreign capital. Nothing would be allowed to interfere with that inflow. In any event, the test we applied was a simple 'not against the national interest.' How much of a barrier would that have been? The price of unfettered foreign investment is, of course, foreign control of important local industries and corporations. No policy maker or adviser seemed to care about that in my time. Today, the door is fully open to foreign buyers, except possibly Chinese Government agencies.

As I left, I knew that the Treasurer and I had a mutually respectful relationship. We dealt closely by phone or face-to-face on a couple of occasions before I moved on. There were prominent and powerful leaders of enterprises in a range of industries, mainly the service industries, who respected my official advice about the way we interpreted the relevant legislation and how we applied our policies, thereby guiding them to the official gateways which existed. As well, an official of the Japanese Embassy had described me as "hard but fair" after my work, over more than two and a half years, in a complex case involving a major Japanese investor. What more could I ask?

My space trek to the new world was not going to take me to the landing I envisaged. My rocket was fizzing out. I seemed destined to enter into a small orbit. In more prosaic language, my destiny seemed to be akin to that plough animal creating furrows on the plain. If, instead of cutting into hillsides or mountain sides to create terraced gardens, I had to remain on the plain, I would avoid boredom by moving further and further out to the margins of the plain to see if the terrain was different.

Settling In

It is not unusual for new members of a social club or a community organisation to suddenly find themselves office bearers. For example, after I had asked a question at the annual general meeting of the parents and citizens association at my little daughter's school, I found myself a vice-president for the year. When, a quarter of a century later, I became a member of a large social club for retirees, I found myself the secretary of that club on my first day. But, surely it must be most strange for a new member of a trade union to find himself from that day a shop steward; that is, a union representative for a workplace.

Attending my first monthly meeting of the ACOA's Branch Council for the A.C.T. (that is, Canberra) I found myself in the presence of a large number of well built men in dark grey suits. They projected an aura of stability and stubborn strength. They seemed to know what they were doing, citing various sections in the ACOA's constitution as appropriate, and seemed to have a good grasp of meeting procedures and tactics. I had no idea what was going on.

I soon realised that this group represented the very backbone of the central offices of the federal public service based in the national capital. These guys were some of the operational experts in each department represented on the Council, providing continuity of knowledge and practice, and were thereby providing necessary stability in each office. The high flyers might rush past them on each totem pole, but could be sunk ignominiously were these stalwarts to turn against them. The ones on Branch Council were the ones with a conscience, seeking better conditions for their members. There was no money in it, no kudos, and no recognition by members or by the government. I had a lot to learn.

A few months into the job, I was surprisingly elected to the Council's representative on the Road Safety Council (RSC) for the capital. The RSC was a community-representative body advising the government. I had obtained more votes than the president. As I had not sought the position, I sensed that I had been used to block him. There must be factions here, I felt. This was my first lesson in such matters. Being ignorant about meeting procedures, I found myself ignored at the RSC no matter what I suggested, until one night when I came up with what seemed to be an acceptable proposal. I was immediately deputised to carry out this publicity project. They must have chuckled at this gullible young fellow. When I tabled my implementation plan at the next meeting, I could see consternation in the well-knit group. Lesson number 2 – respond positively in the face of any silly game strategy.

I reported back to the ACOA that I was not particularly impressed with the work of the RSC, explaining why. The uproar was immediate and impressive. I had foolishly not recognised the secretary of the RSC as a fellow-ACOA Councillor. Lesson no 3 – remember faces, even if they all look alike. The lessons were rolling in fast. Would they be akin to the big waves presaging a storm?

The next day, one of the two councillors for the capital's planning commission invited me to look at plans for the development of the national capital over the next thirty years, including what seemed to me to be an appropriate road and rail system. Having roomed with or known a number of students studying architecture or town planning, I was able to understand the plans. I was impressed. But I was not impressed when I met the national president of the Australian Road Council, much mentioned in the press at that time. To my mild criticism about the capital city's ring road (its camber was wrong), he looked me up and down, and said that our roads were better than in...... (another good look at me in my silver grey suit)...... Thailand. Obviously a much travelled man with an open mind. Lesson number 4 – be less critical.

Would I also need to be sycophantic? I was learning fast. At the end of the year, I resigned from Branch Council, citing my plan to work on my thesis. Lesson number 5 – get off hot plate until I acquire asbestos underpants.

About seven years later, a colleague at my second agency asked if I could attend a meeting of Branch Council that evening as his proxy. I felt that it might be an interesting experience. I sat with a number of councillors who had befriended me in earlier times, including a past secretary of Council. Then a strange thing happened. The president refused to inform the meeting about the circumstances under which a member of his executive had resigned. His reason was not persuasive. Put to a vote, this denial was surprisingly supported by the members, by nineteen to thirteen. My friends and I decided to challenge this decision. How? Using my newly acquired knowledge of procedural motions from Australian Rostrum, a nation-wide organisation which teaches chairmanship and public speaking, we managed to reverse the vote, by nineteen to thirteen, through a series of tactical motions. Lesson number 6 – use brains and tactics in teamwork to get results.

By now, I was involved in providing training to the public on behalf of Rostrum for the Australian Institute of Management in the capital. The trainees were often interesting. A senior executive officer from Foreign Affairs (a former ambassador) wanted guidance in controlling an admiral on his committee. We advised him to be very knowledgeable about correct meeting procedures, and the logic underpinning each procedure. We would then show him a few tricks about bending these procedures. A senior officer of the planning commission wanted confidence in addressing public meetings! Then there was a dairy farmer who wanted to drop out of the ten-week program after the first session. He did not feel that he could prepare a three-minute speech for the next session. When he rang me at home to tell me this, I asked him what he thought about the proposed re-structuring of the dairy industry. Five minutes later, his tirade ended. I advised him to edit his thoughts to three minutes; there was his speech! Some years later, he became chairman of a prominent community board. More years later, I ran into him, to be thanked for guiding him over a mental hurdle.

The ACOA Executive then asked me to conduct a training session for new Branch Councillors on meeting procedures. That was well received by the participants. This would also mean that the ACOA Executive could not bamboozle council members with gobbledegook about procedural matters.

At about the same time, I had been invited by the ACOA Executive to join its panel of 16 promotions appeal committee (PAC) interviewers, with four levels of competence. A promotion appeals committee heard appeals by unsuccessful applicants for a vacant position. The chairman, employed by the Public Service Board (PSB), was nominally neutral. He was not likely, however, to rock the boat. Go with the flow or with the stronger partner, could be expected to be his stance. The evidence available said that this is what happens. The promoting department's representative, whilst nominally impartial, would traditionally defend the selection. Were an appeal to succeed, which was rare, the departmental rep would have some explaining to do back in the office. The union rep, also expected to be impartial, tended to offset this bias by the departmental rep by favouring the appellant(s).

Not all appellants had a viable case. Ever so often, it was an act of protest. Sometimes, the appeal was intended to draw the attention of management, with an eye to the next promotion. I once did that myself. There were selections which reflected prejudice, with referee statements providing evidence of such bias. Such selections could not be overturned were the appellant's referees gutless; that is, mindful of their own promotion prospects. PAC work was thus most interesting; but probably hazardous for a strong believer in justice.

Within the year, I headed the panel, sitting on appeals for the highest positions in the public service in Canberra. It saddened me to see so many heads of division pre-occupied with process rather than outcomes. An evaluation of outcomes would enable better policies and processes. However, senior positions were normally achieved through operational experience, in the main, without any further training in management or in policy evaluation, revision, etc.

Later, aptitude was claimed to be relevant, thus favouring the less experienced, younger applicants. Aptitude is like beauty – in the eye of the beholder! The case for aptitude arose from a new philosophy within the PSB, which claimed to manage the public service. The Board asserted that entrants to the SES required younger officers. Since the heads of divisions were busy managing existing policies and processes, even when these policies were in need of evaluation and revision, what were the junior executives to be doing? I have seen young officers from the Department of Finance promoted to manage education policies.

As for my work on PACs, in the middle of an important hearing, I challenged the PSB about the relative status of union reps on appeals committees. I argued that the three members should be equal. That is, I should be able to ask relevant questions right from the beginning, instead of being the third batsman. The built-in bias would have been self-evident. I also sought the right to seek information not provided but seen by me to be relevant. We (that is, the ACOA) won that challenge, with the PSB Chairman conceding my claims. I used lessons 5 and 6 to achieve this. I have no doubt that I became a marked man after that. Yet, injustice is something I will fight against, wherever possible.

My challenge to the chairman of the committee I was on and, through him, to the PSB, arose when the chairman refused me the right to obtain certain information. Some of this information would need to come from a senior officer of the PSB. I sought the information to challenge a strange claim by the promoting department. Whilst I was not allowed to call on that senior officer, I was now free to obtain the information from other available sources and to introduce it. I subsequently did.

A significant but peripheral issue which arose during that interview was the domino theory, much beloved by those Americans who had substituted international communism for the Christian Devil. The current substitute is terrorism in its tea-towel on head variety. None of my relatives in Malaysia and Singapore had any concern that the communist Vietnamese might proceed to overcome, successively, the free governments of East Asian nations, there being no other communists perceivable in the region. But, it was an axiom of faith, not only with the Australian Government, but also allegedly in academe.

I also managed to change the ACOA's traditional attitude. I pointed out that, whilst a departmental rep is required by his head to defend the selection, the union rep should be seen as impartial and objective. This might induce the chairman to be more neutral. Since many appeals occur only because the selections were opaque, I then suggested more open selection procedures. I offered a paper on both policy and procedure to the union executive on how this might be done. My advice was accepted.

We had previously set out to counter those departmental reps asking innocuous questions of the promotee whilst grilling the appellant. With my right to participate right from the beginning, some of my more penetrating questions led to certain departmental reps providing the answers, presumably to protect a weak promotee. In these situations, the chairman would remind the rep that he was not the interviewee. The ACOA rep's impartial treatment of all candidates set a higher standard at hearings. However, it was not easy to box in a biased chairman, or one who preferred to back the department unquestioningly. One chairman used to ask about the schools that the candidates had attended decades before. It took me a while to realise that he was favouring those who had attended parochial (that is, church) schools. This was fatuous. Since the chairmen were already at the end of their career paths, they could have been more impartial.

My approach led the ACOA to appoint me to a new career protection sub-committee. Since I was not a Branch Councillor, the Council elected me, for each of ten years, as a member of the sub-committee. For the last seven years, I chaired and led this team. Perhaps it was also because I did most of the work. With the support of the PSB, we conducted short courses on selection procedures and interviewing techniques, focusing on what was the expected outcome, and the most efficient way to reach it.

For three years, I was the course director, that is, the planner and coordinator of twice- yearly joint PSB/ACOA training programs. Each program was crafted to meet the specific needs of those attending. The courses were opened by a Commissioner of PSB, and attended by the chairmen of the PACs. These courses were acknowledged to be very successful. The emphasis of the courses was why interviews were necessary. What were we looking for that was not on paper? What kind of questions would optimise the process of separating goat from goat, as distinct from separating sheep from goat (to coin a phrase, but not disparagingly)? By seeking attitudes and values, could the committee be better able to make the correct choice? And so on.

I was allowed by my department to carry out this work in official time where necessary, although it was only a hobby, or volunteer work, for me. A more open and efficient promotions appeals system was naturally of benefit to the public service and to the nation.

My sub-committee on career protection also studied staff assessment practices. The Department of Foreign Affairs had an excellent system, which also allowed staff serving overseas to have equal opportunity with those closer to the action at home in being considered for promotion. Our view was that, were all those interested in a particular promotion to know the basis of the claims of others similarly interested, and were the department to have on record on-going performance assessments, there would be less scope for selectors to exercise their prejudices, and more scope for applicants for understanding the basis for a selection. In the event, there should be fewer appeals.

However, how does one ensure that political party membership does not influence an ambassadorial appointment from within Foreign Affairs? Or, a departmental head's personal prejudices expressed orally? In Immigration, an Asian was denied a promised promotion to an overseas post by a new departmental head. A personnel bird subsequently whispered to the Asian: "Work for Anglo-Australians, not just for Muslims."

A court decision also introduced natural justice into the public service's selection process. That is, any adverse assessments had to be made known to the person assessed, allowing a defence or rebuttal. That was a great win because, in an earlier case, the judge had said that natural justice did not apply in the public service. How on earth could he have said that? Could natural justice be excluded explicitly in legislation?

Whether our improved procedures, as accepted by the PSB, was actually implemented would depend on the moral integrity of the initial selectors or, as appropriate, of the members of the PAC. My personal experience of being denied this natural justice, both by an ACOA PAC colleague and by the chairman of that committee, identified that the effectiveness of a just system of administration relies upon interviewers being upright and strong people. That was not always so. There was, in my experience, demonstrated bias against foreigners, Aborigines, older staff, and especially independent thinkers. Preferences were based on gender, religion, social or sporting links. On the basis of oral assessments given to PACs, I can confirm that there were some very nasty people in senior positions. Why did PAC chairmen not insist on written appraisals?

With everyone entitled to know what everyone else involved is saying, there would be fewer appeals, and therefore more efficiency in the administration of staff. Many a petty bureaucrat had his nose put out by our improvements. This included the senior public servant in the PSB whose job was to ensure an effective promotions appeal system. We did what he was unable to do. Why couldn't he? Now there would be fewer promotions based on connections of an unspoken kind; and fewer rejections of competence.

My extended support for the objectives of the ACOA led to two significant developments. At one time, I was appointed to a federal committee on career protection, working closely with the Federal Secretary. I was also asked, at another time, by the two contenders for the position of Branch Secretary whether I would join their team as a contender for the position of Branch President. Recalling the advice given to me years before about not involving myself in any form of politics, I declined.

Just when everything was well settled, I agreed to a short-term posting to Melbourne, and was rewarded with a meritorious service award by the union. When I returned nearly a year later, I found that a new Labor Party (ALP) government had closed down an efficient and open public sector promotions system. In contrast, it opened up an inefficient manufacturing sector in the national economy to overseas competition, and to probable efficiency. Whilst the union movement was alleged to be a partner in ALP policies, the ACOA's work offering fair play and natural justice to public servants was effectively destroyed. Politically appointed heads of agencies could now place their own people in key positions freely. Merit would be in the political eyes of the head. Years later, the public service was reportedly totally politicised by a conservative Coalition government.

My entry into the promotions appeals business had been influenced substantially by my initial experience in my third agency. Carrying out so-called research with no targeted outcomes or deadlines is not a suitable job for one who likes to beat deadlines, to get results, and to improve the process or practice involved, having regard to desired outcomes. My approach was an unobjectionable management one – to ask those two questions: Is this what we ought to be doing? If so, how well are we doing it? Stymied in my expectation of an interesting job, angry at myself at having taken the wrong job, and depressed at finding myself at the bottom of a cold cravasse, I had to do something about lifting up my spirits, whilst I climbed out of that deep hole. The ACOA's PAC work was only the beginning.

In the meanwhile, and long before I had become immersed in civil society or been promoted from base-grade clerk, my wife had returned from an enjoyable trip by slow boat from Britain to Singapore. In Singapore, whilst she resided with my sister, she had written to me to ask for more money to enable her to travel to Hong Kong and back, before she returned home. From sundry stops en route to Singapore she had previously stated that she was having a lovely time on the journey. Obviously, life outside the boring constraints of marriage was interesting.

My Singapore sister's reports, following those from London, had set off warning bells in my mind. After more than four years of a happy and stable life (excluding a few initial hiccups), I had felt keenly the pangs of loneliness when my wife left for her holiday. Could we not have gone together when I completed my studies, was the question that niggled. Then...... she was in no hurry to return. The message? The end may be nigh.

I understood that years of waiting for me to acquire academic qualifications and to settle into a job with good career prospects had been frustrating for her. However, I was now ready to take off, with security and reasonable prospects of a rising income. Would she not be more optimistic about our future together? I wasn't sure anymore.

When she returned, she found me in a government guest house. It was now clear that her feelings for me had palpably eroded. What had caused that? My life at the bottom of the public service, in a township of about 50,000 people with few amenities, and a loss of our network of close friends, could not have been attractive. She might also miss her mum. Clearly, she did not clearly want to live in Canberra. We did try to relate, but not successfully; that necessary warmth was not quite there. Her love had indeed flown.

I thought that the Cosmos had struck out at me yet again, just when a stable future beckoned. Was there any purpose in asking why? My wife and I agreed to part, and to wait for a divorce. With no-fault divorce, and government policy clearly reflected, in part, in a divorce judge who was staunchly Roman Catholic, one imply had to wait, and wait – to prove that the marriage had broken down irretrievably. Eventually we were divorced, proving correct the palmists and sundry clairvoyants who had said that my destiny was to be married twice. And I had worried about losing my wife through death, rather than divorce.

Going our separate ways, both of us eventually found new partners, and commenced our respective families. Yet, I remain grateful for the support my wife had given me in my effort to prepare myself for a career in Australia. I do appreciate that the uncertainty of my future in a racist environment must have been destabilising for her. Then, there is the role of Destiny. It could have been kinder to both of us. Our spirit guides might also have taken pity on us.

For me, peace beckoned, coinciding with interesting work, and challenging community service involvement. A chance meeting (is there really such a thing?) led to me falling in love with my wife-to-be; and vice versa. It was wonderful to be able to relate to a woman who was loving, and who put no pressure on me of any kind.

Since we were both poor, and had no savings or other financial assets, and no family back-up, we moved into a converted garage. It was about three squares (300 sq feet or 27 sq metres), with a stove and a sink. I bought a small fridge. The dining furniture was a card table with four stools. The toilet and bathroom were in the house; we had to walk into the backyard and through the back door. Our home was damned cold in the winter. For casual company, we had the charming four-year old daughter of our Greek landlord. She was full of questions about all sorts of things, particularly about things "deaded". Our permanent company was a white Persian cat, who had no questions other than "What's for dinner?"

In the midst of my self-destruction as a medical student, I had apparently said (I do not remember this) to an English girl, who subsequently became my adopted blood-sister, that I would one day have a white cat. We became blood sisters through joining the blood flow at our respective wrists in the fashion of certain (Red) American Indians. However, I have never ever met a cat before. I did not know anyone with a cat. Why would I even think of being near a cat? Why would I want one? In any event, in our culture, we do not allow any animal (normally a dog) to enter our homes. Why? They brought dirt on their feet and infections on their snouts. After all, did we not remove our shoes at the door before entering the home for reasons of cleanliness?

Was I clairvoyant? Late one new year's eve, a friend gave my new wife a tiny grey kitten, a stray. She wanted it. That night the kitten made his choice. He shared my pillow. And I am the one who is allergic to fur and feathers! The next morning, after it had been given a wash, we found that we now had a white, long-haired (non-allergenic) three-quarter Persian. My strange wish had been fulfilled! Does Destiny also involve a kitten choosing me as his friend? My wife was acceptable to the kitten when she fed him or cuddled him. Cats do know who their slaves are!

Whisky was a joy, even when he followed, with his eyes, the path of an invisible extra-terrestrial moving across the ceiling from time to time. He was not a joy when I had to wake up in the middle of a winter's night to rescue this fool of a kitten from the roof of a neighbour's garage, with his fur frozen stiff. Before the baby arrived, he used to sleep in the pram we had bought. After the baby claimed her pram, which was usually covered with an insect-proof netting when out in the open, Whisky would peer into the pram, sniff in disgust and, waving his tail in disapproval, meander away. By the time the baby had learnt to poke the cat's nose, they were close friends.

I also re-located my wife's elderly mother into a self-contained shed in the back yard of a friend. It was secure and comfortable. However, it was a substantial comedown in the world for her, but there was no one else to look after her. Believing me to be "an educated gentleman" (this was before my self-chosen transmogrification into an operational Aussie), my mother-in-law used to cook wonderful Italian meals for us. Unfortunately, she died before the arrival of her granddaughter. They would have enjoyed each other.

Before the baby arrived, my wife and I had attended a few diplomatic cocktail parties. We created some interest and possibly some confusion. It appears that we scrubbed up pretty well; that is, we were well dressed, well spoken, and well behaved. We may have presented ourselves as educated and socially sophisticated which, of course, we thought we were. Our respective accents were seemingly compatible with those of even Australia's diplomats. However, once those around us discovered that I was not a foreign diplomat, not in Australia to study, but a public service clerk, only those interested in us as people stayed to talk to us. This once led to an ambassador attempting to seduce my wife, as his wife had recently been seduced by a fellow, but junior, diplomat from another country.

The irony of our dealings with Australian diplomats was that I had earlier met most of the intakes into the foreign service one year. I played squash with one of these, as well as with a more senior diplomat. With my early introduction through the ACOA to the public service structure, I could place every one of our diplomats by classification and income, merely by asking about their record of overseas postings. Looking at their cars and homes told me about the extent of family financial support. Their accents told me about their origins and the kinds of schools they had attended. The wives were easier to classify. Most had attended 'good' schools. I understood that a suitable wife was essential to selection and promotion.

Somehow, we also fell in with some academics. These gatherings were more personal and in our respective homes. Obviously, appropriate introductions had previously identified each of us. These visits would continue, with some new faces over time, as some of the academics were similar to the diplomats; they were peripatetic. We did have some interesting times.

With either community – they were indeed mutually exclusive communities, as were the public servants – the initial interaction was important. With curiosity satisfied, some members of either the diplomats or the academics might behave as if my wife and I were interlopers. To identify such persons, I introduced myself as a public service clerk for the next ten years. However, I was sprung one night. A diplomat said to me "You wouldn't be here unless you are a director somewhere in the public service." That confirmed what I knew: there was a pecking order. The public servants were the worst in applying this pecking order. My wife and I were dropped socially by certain friends after the heads of household were promoted to senior positions.

Then the baby arrived. There went the diplomatic cocktail parties. There went our sleep. Each of our children gave us one night of unbroken sleep over two years.

Family life in Australia was, for me, somewhat strange. Without relatives, we were very much on our own. We were surrounded by nuclear families, mainly public servants transferred from Melbourne. Baby sitters were therefore a problem. Relying on an authoritarian child-less nursing sister on how to cope with a distressed baby was a worry, especially as she did not like cats. When my first-born was only a couple of weeks old, my wife was re-hospitalised. When trying to bathe a very slippery baby, I feared that I might drown her. Fortunately, too clucky neighbours, one Swiss, the other Latvian, whose children were all boys, saved me. Was I grateful that they wanted to bathe a tiny baby girl!

My experience during the Japanese occupation of Malaya of looking after five cousins from 18 months to about 8 years of age for about 2 months, following the tragic demise of their mother, was totally inadequate. I now had to learn to prepare bottles of feed, varying their strength according to the level of the baby's colic, burp her after each feed, change her nappies, dress her, put her to sleep, feed myself, and then rush off to the hospital, with either of my clucky neighbours standing guard over the baby. What a start to family life! But, it was wonderful having an undemanding wife and a beautiful bub. What this baby showed me was that I love little babies. I realised too that each baby born is a miracle.

My life with my little daughter was joyous. She was slightly built, with a very light tan (equivalent to a northern Greek or Italian), at peace with the world, and surprisingly adventurous. Climbing onto a pile of firewood, with a mischievous smile, she would seek to climb over the side fence, which was closed to keep her safe. When I worked to establish a lawn in a new suburb, she helped with her own garden tools. When I dug a hole for the establishment of a plant, as soon as I moved away, she would be sitting in it. She travelled in the wheelbarrow whether it was full or not. In between our hard work, she could be seen dancing quietly.

In the sandpit I constructed for her, and in her cubby house, there would be as many neighbouring children as could be fitted in. This also occurred with the small inflatable pool which sat on my new lawn in the summer. She was also quite self-sufficient in occupying herself. When she got a little stronger, at about four, she developed a thundering soccer kick. When we travelled by car, she would stand by my side, there being no requirement for seatbelts then, and sing. Before that, sitting in her car seat which was hooked on to the front bench seat, she would wave her hands about as she talked. When standing, she had to hang on to me.

So, we spent a lot of time talking, as she displayed an enquiring mind; and playing. There went my attempt to write a thesis. How could I, when a little hand would thump the bedroom door and an imperious voice call out "Whaja, Whaja." Since my wife spent part of the next few years losing babies and being hospitalised, I was very busy with my little girl. When her mother was unwell, I had to travel across town to leave her with our former Latvian neighbour. Whilst she was not happy at this, she was much loved. All through her life she was much loved, both because of her nice nature and her cleverness. At both her preschool and school, the teachers displayed a great fondness for this beautiful child.

I do not know if our experience of family life was typical. Our second child, a son, was born slightly premature only to die the same day. We did not get over that devastating loss, ever! The next pregnancy, involving twin girls, was also a dreadful loss at mid-term. There was clearly something wrong with my wife. How does anyone cope with such tragedy, and the uncertainty of the future? One never does, no matter how philosophical or busy one is. The trauma is etched into one's soul for life.

The next pregnancy produced a boy, in very hazardous circumstances. The specialist had already warned us that either or both mother and child might not survive the pregnancy, having initially advised my wife not to become pregnant. Because of his religion, he asked our GP to prescribe the birth control pill. My wife refused the pill, saying that we were not going to leave a part-Asian child in white Australia without a brother or sister. When she became pregnant, this specialist ensured that she did not lose this baby. On one occasion, it involved him threatening the nursing staff at the hospital with some severe penalty if anything were to happen to his patient through their negligence. Where necessary, the specialist slept at the hospital, to be readily available. What a man!

Both mother and child lived, thanks be to God and our specialist. My son's survival was initially uncertain. After his birth, he was cleaned, and just wrapped up and kept warm. For weeks thereafter, he slept in his cot next to a heater in our lounge. We watched over him like hawks. We thanked God and the Cosmos for his survival and the joy he gave us. His sister will not be alone, we knew. Neither would he.

Both children grew up submerged in classical music. From daybreak till bedtime the house will filled with this music, played on a radiogram. This was our single major possession which was not essential to survival. By then, we were living in our own home. Destiny was continuing to give us a good shake, but we were yet being looked after.

The classical music of Australia and its European antecedents has sustained me throughout my travails in this nation. I was initially introduced to it when I was twelve. I was taught to play the violin by a young Goanese. His family was musically talented. I have seen a teenage member of the family playing the violin beautifully as he walked around their home. When the Japanese first bombed my township, Kuala Lumpur, I was busily scratching away on my violin, and did not hear the first bombs. After the Japanese left, I became a second violinist in the KL Symphony Orchestra, dominated by wealthy Chinese. My job was to go pluck, plink, saw, saw. No doubt, I contributed in a small way to some great productions of the most glorious music ever conceived by human minds, anywhere on Earth. I must have been a European in an earlier life.

My wife and I sought solace in this music throughout our seemingly unending health problems. Our children were thoroughly soaked in this music. When I had my own room at work, from when I was 35 years of age, I listened to classical music on a small radio. Before that, it accompanied my studies. I still have a wide collection of quality recordings.

Through my first wife, I had begun to appreciate operatic music. She was a soprano, at one time a contestant in the Sun Aria competition in Victoria. Strangely, I surprise myself and others occasionally by being able to identify the great singers of yesteryear. I must admit that I did not take to Italian opera at first. When a European migrant took me to an extended program by visiting Italian singers, I was foolish enough to say that my favourite production was the one with the elephants; and how could a dying woman become louder and noisier as she collapsed. My cynical view of tall, big-bosomed ladies bellowing forth, accompanied fiercely by little men who needed fruit boxes to stand on, was also not well received. I also did not like those pieces obviously intended to show how some women can use God-given vocal chords. Somehow I survived such an assessment; the bumps on my head represent nature.

Eventually, I became acculturated to all forms of operatic music, except the Chinese. That should be banned. It seemingly reflects the clashes of warring tribes on the edges of settlements in the wilds of what are now the border lands of China, Mongolia, Manchuria, etc. My second wife introduced me to ballet, and associated dance. I had already been sensitised to the great art and architecture of the known civilisations, through my student colleague at the Titles Office.

My wife and I moved into a rented home after our daughter was born. With the bare windows covered in white sheets (all that we could afford) and barely any furniture, we listened to classical music. Then, an academic neighbour asked us gently if we could reduce the volume of the music after 11pm, such was our enjoyment of the music. Fortunately, we were soon allocated a two-storey, semi-detached house by the government. It was there that we had that terrible experience with that un-Australian priest. I established a front fence to protect our daughter, lawns for her to play on, a lovely S-shaped garden bed with flowering plants, and a dozen fruit trees in the back yard. For a fellow who had never worked with his body or hands, it surely was quite an achievement.

We soon had to vacate this, our first family home. My wife's health did not permit her to use the stairs. One morning I went to work, with my wife unable to get off the couch in the lounge. The neighbours on both sides, who knew that she was in dire straits, actually met on our front lawn that morning. They'd talked for quite a while, but did not bother to look in on my wife. Yet, their children always played in my back yard. Our little girl was being minded at the other end of town. I rushed home at lunch time to help my wife into the toilet, and to feed her. Yes, I have good reason to remember that priest and to despise his leaders for the barriers they placed around their flock.

With the help of the head of the Bureau of Statistics, our doctors, and the understanding of fellow public servants allocating government housing, we moved into a single-storey home, in the outermost suburb, in early summer. The ground was, as at the other place, barren. I remember our cat Whisky trying to find shade behind a single blade of a long weed. Each evening after work, I set out to create a small patch of lawn, achieving the required lawns in reasonable time. I planted fifty tiny shrubs and twenty small trees, their placement being on advice from experts. Being a tropical person, the more dense the vegetation, the better I felt. Five years later, I had to take out every second shrub and a number of trees. In time, I achieved a lovely garden surround, only to have it all sold when my second marriage too collapsed. There has to be a lesson in this. I create, and move on. I contribute, and move on. Why me, damn it?

Returning to my story about my family's experiences with childhood illnesses and such like, each child subsequently spent time in an isolation ward at the hospital for different reasons when they were both quite little. My son had his adenoids removed at 18 months. Both children had their tonsils out at about 4 years. We now learnt how terrible some nurses can be towards really young frightened children in pain. An American nursing sister known to have two young children was disgustingly rough with our son. My wife observed her shine her torch into his eyes whilst he was asleep. She gave him a good shake to wake him speedily in order to medicate him. When the child then cried, she shouted at him. My wife and I took turns to sit in the children's ward all through one night when this dragon was on duty.

Another experience was of a young nurse who had threatened to smack my young daughter because she whimpered as she was recovering from the anaesthetic. Was it because the child was coloured? Or, was the nurse just unsuitable for nursing? Probably both. They were not easy days for us.

Then there occurred a major operation on my wife, and we learnt about the evil that religion can cause. A very overdue hysterectomy was said to be seen by some nurses as a sin. They were therefore somewhat slow with necessary service. Our GP confirmed that this was not an isolated case. Fortunately, such pride and prejudice resulting from ignorance gave way as convent girls became feminists (so I read), and the _en suite_ beat the priests (so I know). With the birth control pill, young Roman Catholic women began to achieve parity with their age cohorts of other brands of Christianity. They were able to acquire a home early, and with the accoutrements considered desirable. There are times when I do wonder how Jesus their Savior would now view the power play and male chauvinism which evolved from his teaching.

In modern times, as happened with a young colleague of mine, a young priest could refer a couple who were about to marry to certain doctors. These doctors could prescribe the pill for two or more years to overcome certain medical problems. These problems might be inferred, as in the case of my colleague's bride-to-be. In that time, a couple could save a deposit for a home. Quietly, the injunction to produce a minimum of four children seemed to have disappeared. My young colleagues were more than happy at this change. I noticed that there was diminished pride in their allegedly unique faith, and diminished prejudice against fellow Christians on adjacent roads to that Heavenly Abode. There may have been a diminished ignorance by that priesthood as well. Yet did not Pope Benedict XVI recently claim that he controlled the sole track to that Abode?

Greater freedom can beget greater understanding. Enhanced understanding should induce tolerance and mutual respect. Yet, with some people, say nurses, ignorance might be replaced by arrogance.

In modern times a nurse might consider certain tasks in a hospital to be below her dignity because she now has a university degree. As my wife and a close friend learnt in two prestigious hospitals, greater learning did not always result in adequate care. After my wife had recovered from the anaesthetic after an extended surgery in a major Sydney hospital many years after her hysterectomy, she asked for a cup of tea. No, she had to wait for the tea trolley. Could she have a glass of water then? No, she had to get it herself. "I cannot walk. I have just come out after surgery." The response was "I can give you some water if you ask for some Panadol." That was in the Royal Women's Hospital in the 1980s. At another major hospital, my wife's friend, recovering from surgery on her hip, asked if the nurse could retrieve her slippers which had been pushed under her bed. The nurse's reply was "I did not complete a degree to dig out slippers from under a bed," before walking away.

When my wife was in recovery mode, I spent a great deal of time looking after my children. The need to work overtime was a problem, but the extra money was a bonus. I budgeted six months ahead, by necessity, watching every pound. Our medial expenses were very, very high.

After a while, family life settled down to a more normal pattern, with a couple of exceptions. When my son was five, two boys cycled past our home calling our "Hey abo." He wandered into the house and asked "What's an abo, mum?" This was interesting. My wife and I had agreed that, in the circumstances of our children's mixed heritage, she would stay at home. She would help out in the school. That we would remain poor was taken as read. Each of our children came home for lunch; said hello to mum almost daily as she assisted in the school library; and brought a friend or two home after school. Each visitor received a glass of milk and a couple of biscuits, just like their host. My wife was also a member of the Parents and Citizens Association at the school.

Knowing the principal well, she mentioned the incident of the two boys calling out to her five year old. The event occurred in an era when any parent criticising, or even commenting on, any aspect of what happened at, or affected, their school was automatically described as an over-anxious parent. This was usually the mother, and that appellation would become dispersed throughout the school rapidly. The principal's response was therefore predictable. Nothing to worry about, he said. Would he do something about it? No, he could not respond to every allegation made by parents. "That's OK" said my wife "I will talk to the press about racism in this community."

No surprisingly, he then pulled out another song book. The next morning, one mother, an Anglo-Aussie, apologised to my wife on behalf of her son. The other boy, son of German immigrants, came to our door to apologise. The principal gave a short sermon at assembly about respecting differences in colour, culture, origins, etc. There was no further problem, ever. The point here is: would a NESB parent have achieved similar results? What my wife achieved for our school was to avoid the racism of schools everywhere. I recall how an Anglo-Indian high school boy had left a Catholic boarding school in a country town in the 1990s because of unrelenting aspersions about his skin colour. Sharing a faith was no protection.

As with my little daughter, I enjoyed helping my baby son grow up. He was not as shy as his sister, but was equally confident. However, he was dangerously adventurous. I came home one lunch time to feed my ill wife and the children. I heard the chatter of a number of young children in a blue gum tree in the front yard. The branches of the tree started at about a foot off the ground. I found six children, the oldest being no more than 7 years old, up the tree. The youngest was my son, at two and a half, about five feet up. The others were up higher. I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

My problem was whether they knew how to come down. A two and a half year old is a very little child. So, focusing on him, I taught them how to hang on with at least one hand whilst they found a firm footing with a foot on a lower branch. They came down one at a time looking mighty pleased with themselves. Group confidence was high. They also clearly believed in what I had been saying as mantra: Only the stupid fall off trees. I guessed that it was my own little daughter, not yet six, who had led the climb. Dear oh dear, I had two risk-takers. So they proved to be. At 18, with two others, my son successfully concluded a wild-water rafting trip on the dangerous Franklin River in Tasmania, without any prior experience or a guide. As risk-takers are born so, it is not wise to seek to contain them. But then, at 60, with a very worn lumber and cervical spine, I too went wild water rafting. It was only on the Nymboida River in NSW.

Like his sister, my son was cheerful and confident. Since they have enquiring minds, as well as strong personalities, they were encouraged to ask about anything that interested them; as well as have me explain the rules that my wife and I jointly laid out as needed. If a rule could not be defended, I would discard it. They had to understand why some limits were placed on them, to behave sensibly, and to think for themselves. My wife and I, by working as a team, produced responsible teenagers and, subsequently, adults. What else could parents do?

In sport, since my daughter was a gymnast, there was little I could do to develop her. She was a self-starter and self-driven anyway, ultimately becoming an Outward Bound instructor. I was, however, able to teach my son some tricks in soccer and hockey. Great sporting skills, like so many other skills, are essentially inherited. Training simply enhances that innate ability. My father, my maternal uncles, my cousins and I were all good at sport.

As for me, after being dragooned into the position of vice-president of my daughter's P&C, I attended a couple of meetings. All that I had done was to ask a question at the beginning of my first meeting; and there I was, a Vice-President at the end of the meeting. I was disappointed to find a principal who sought to use scarce P&C-raised money to purchase curtains for the stage in the school hall, whilst little children were expected to sit on the cold floors, even in winter, for some lessons. Why did they have to sit on the cold floor? We, the parents, were not permitted, in an unspoken way, to ask. I successfully moved that carpet squares be bought for all classrooms where the children were required to sit on the floor. I did wonder at the logic of this practice in educational terms.

When the principal then asked the P&C for a resolution opposing a proposal by the federal government to provide state aid for church schools, I pointed out that any such expenditure did not necessarily mean a reduction in the government's budget for government school; and that surely it was not a P&C matter. When I won that point too, I realised that I had better move out of that principal's orbit. It was the next principal that my wife had fronted, and he was a sensible man. State aid for state schools was part of the campaign by the Menzies government to wean Roman Catholic voters from the ALP, as well as the DLP, the new breakaway party of the extreme right. The government went even further; it recognised the Vatican as a sovereign nation, long after Mussolini had made that initial decision. In the 2000s, emboldened by governments in Australia subsidising the richest religious institution in the world holding a World Catholic Youth Week in Sydney, local Vaticanites are seeking full time ambassadorial representation at the Vatican. The benefit to Australia is not clear.

Dealing with teachers can be touchy. I was once asked not to correct my children's work books after the teachers had made their corrections. Was I to leave uncorrected errors, and thus mis-educate my children? When a teacher refused to let my son bring home his exercise books during term holidays, I wrote courteously asking for them. She told my son that she was opposed to students studying during their holidays. I wrote back again, politely, to say that the books were ours, and what my children did out of school should not be of concern to the school. She complained to the principal that I had been rude to her. He rang me to hear my view.

I then invited him and his wife to dinner. Over four hours of talk about educational philosophy and practice, we could not find anything to disagree about. I had studied child development. And I came from an extended family of school teachers. I had done some school teaching myself, although I am untrained. I have also taught public speaking, chairmanship, debating, and interviewing and selection techniques.

The principal was also aware that, some years earlier, I and fifteen other local parents had carried out a door-knock in our district to find out how many children would need a preschool in the foreseeable future. Confronted with our data, the controllers of Canberra did provide us with a temporary second preschool. Through this exercise, I learnt that bureaucrats do not like the public doing their work for them, especially as they had not done it.

In any event, it should not have surprised me when the principal subsequently asked me to be nominated for the foundation school board. A concept of community participation in the governance of schools was being borrowed from the USA just when it was falling out of fashion there. I was nominated and elected. My nomination of a parent colleague for chairman was rejected, and I was elected. By then, I had enough community work on my plate, and did not want the job. However, it was a good team. The principal was supported by his two deputies, and I had two friends, an accountant and a psychologist. Indeed, in the first few years of school boards, the education system was awash with talented administrators and academics; we were almost without exception, senior lecturers, colonels or directors in the public service.

My Board commenced work by re-writing the school's policy, highlighting our educational objectives in operational terms; sociological jargon and union bias was out. Then we successfully co-ordinated the output standards of the three feeder primary schools with the input requirements of our high schools. Our accountant colleague helped with the school's finances. We then met with the local clergy to find our why they had pulled out of their scripture classes. They said that parents wanting their children to be taught about Christianity might attend church with their children. Would they support, we asked, a program of _education_ in our school about religion in the broad? Yes. Absolutely wonderful, they said. We wanted our children to understand that instinct in all mankind to reach towards the Cosmos.

A survey of all parents brought a response covering about 80% of homes. A very substantial majority agreed with a program of educating the children about faith. The rearguard action by a handful of parents and teachers to force the clergy back was lost. How could they succeed? I then wrote an outline of an educational program. The ACT Schools Authority rep on the Board came back to say that the Authority liked it. I then consulted a number of teachers, preachers and institutions, both academic and religious, and drew up a more detailed outline. My psychologist colleague on the Board, being a Quaker, was a boon. The draft we parent members of the Board had agreed to was submitted to the teachers. We were clearly exercising our right to say _what_ our school should teach, whilst the teachers would decide _how_ that was taught. Some teachers had difficulty with such a democratic ideal.

Then there was a strange delay. The new principal seemingly did not approve of any parent initiatives in the unspoken long term plan by the education authority to devolve responsibility for the administration of schools to principals. In the long term, the school board would become a kind of glee club, with the parent members hand picked by the principal. Often, these parents would be teachers at other schools. So I found when, later, I was appointed a representative of the Schools Authority to a school outside my suburb. Starting board meetings at 4pm to suit the teachers meant (ensured?) that parents with substantial responsibilities (the more able ones?) could not afford to be board members.

The teachers seemed to be taking over the schools. Yet, in the absence of the former inspectorial system of teacher assessment, principals had a lot more control over them. I felt that the teachers were facing the wrong end of the camel in seeking more influence. They also, rather foolishly in my view, preferred to have teachers' aids cleaning boards, setting up experiments, and such like, rather than secure higher wages. Their wages were low compared to that of unskilled public servants doing routine work.

A friend amongst the school teachers then warned me one evening that a particular senior teacher had started a rumour that I, with my "foreign faith," was responsible for the lack of a Christian education in the school. I called a meeting of the teachers. We three parents sat at the head table by ourselves. We said that we had been alerted to a trouble maker among them; we knew who it was! Indeed I knew that this particular person and I attended the same Anglican church. We then took the teachers over the developments after the clergy had, of their own volition, pulled out of conducting scripture classes. What was the teachers' objection to our plan, supported by the community at large, to educate our children about religious faith? Was this also not a matter beyond the rights of teachers, whose responsibility is the how, but not the what?

Then a teacher began to talk about her teacher training, and rather foolishly raised the matter of "applying Piagettian concepts." I believe that this was intended to display the newly found academic expertise of a few of the teachers. All this was, of course, outside the scope of the meeting. That was to deal with a false rumour, and to ask for their co-operation in assessing how they might teach what we, backed by the Schools Authority, sought to do. I said so.

To place the credentials of the parents in perspective, I then pointed out that one parent was a Quaker and a qualified psychologist; the other was Christian and an accountant; and that I was a card-carrying Christian, a metaphysical Hindu, a freethinker in matters of faith, academically qualified to be a student counsellor, and an economist. I had also read Piaget twenty years earlier, when I had studied child development. Could we now please focus on our relative responsibilities, with mutual respect for our respected skills? That was that. There was no more nonsense from that trouble maker.

At my second last meeting of the Board, I warned that, if the teachers held up our proposal, I would tell the parents who was responsible. The next meeting produced an acceptance by the teachers of what was, in effect, a Board (that is, a joint parent-teacher) proposal. At the end-of-year speech night, I told a hall full of parents about our plan, that it had been finally accepted by the teachers, and was ready for implementation. I also pointed out that I was the one who had initiated the matter, that I had done most of the work, and that I was not a man of a foreign faith, but a card-carrying Christian who was also ecumenical. We heard no more about our proposal, partly because we parents chose not to look back at where we had been. I personally did not expect much progress. Public servants, especially teachers, will resist change almost automatically.

The year before, with the principal who could find no disagreement with my educational philosophies, Board meetings had been very much more relaxed and productive. The funniest meeting was when the principal told us that his deputy, sitting with us, had that day received a deputation with a written petition from three grade six students. They were protesting about their teacher always "picking on" one of their class. The deputy laughingly said that he had promised to look into the matter. Why were we being told, I wondered.

It was all quite simple. My son was the leader of the delegation, and one of his team was the daughter of my accountant Board colleague, who was also a near neighbour. She later said that she had signed "really small" because she was frightened. We had a laugh about all that. But I thought it prudent to say as we walked out, and with a friendly smile, that if anything happened to the three petitioners, it would be over my dead body. My wife told me that night that she had seen our son looking quite happy on his way to the deputy principal's office. Well, well, we had a chip off the old blocks, hadn't we?

In the meanwhile, I had also been busy in other areas of community service. Community Aid Abroad (CAA) attracted me because it contributed to the earning capacity and survival of self-employed villages in Asia and Africa or to the health and education of an impoverished community there. My financial contribution was deducted from my wages for 25 years, until my retirement. My support was also influenced by the low administrative and process overhead cost. Our representatives overseas were certainly not living well at the expense of both donor and beneficiary, as reportedly happens with many other overseas aid organisations. In Australia, the committee was then heavily middle class, in senior positions or married to those in senior positions, and inclined to eat its way to raising funds.

When I joined the CAA committee when it was based in Canberra, I pointed out that we were hardly known, and that we needed to generate some publicity. Not surprisingly, I became press officer. We made some progress, but realised that we had to involve younger, more enthusiastic, and more energetic members. So, we passed the baton to a university-based committee, and CAA's work and reputation took off thereafter.

Before that, the committee had our Indian representative visit us. Whilst he was accommodated by someone with a larger home, I was asked if my wife and I would provide him with his normal vegetarian diet. This my wife and I did. After one of our meals, he asked to see a poor family. My wife took him to a near neighbour, who was a builder's labourer, whose garden was un-kept, and whose car was always falling apart. His wife would use her laundry infrequently, leaving the clothes on the line for up to a couple of weeks. My wife would collect warm clothes from her friends, place them in a bag inside our front door, and invite the eldest child after play with our children to take the bag to the mother. Nothing was ever said by anyone about this community support.

The neighbour agreed to show their government house to our visitor and my wife. After noting the TV set, fridge, electric stove, laundry machine, and the relatively clean house sparsely furnished, but with lino on the floor, our new friend said to me sadly, "I wish to God our people could be as poor as that." Amen!

CAA's efforts to help were puny against the magnitude of the poverty of the people in under-developed nations, and the disgusting disparity in wealth, comfort and economic security between their haves and have-nots. Whilst their rich, especially the politicians, became filthy rich, obscenely rich, their poor remained filthy poor, perennially exploited or ignored. As long as the local politicians permit foreign investment and sprout the usual utterances about democracy, human rights, transparency, etc, the Western world is indifferent to the plight of the common people.

Yet, someone out there was slightly better off because of CAA's interest. Against that, we were told Customs officials in Australia were levying a tariff duty on any imported good which might be seen to compete with an Australian product. Where there was a concessional tariff on products made by hand in under-developed nations, if the officials claimed that an electric hand tool had been used by the artisan or craftsman overseas, the full tariff would be applied. That Australia's customs tariff protected inefficient Australian producers, and thereby caused customers to pay higher prices for their purchases, was an interesting feature of this laid-back nation.

Another community involvement of mine was being secretary for three years of two Freemasonry lodges simultaneously. Admission to the blue lodge was by application, to the red lodge by invitation. When I applied to join, I was very pleased to find that most of the people I had come to respect at work, hockey, the ACOA, etc were Masons. I enjoyed my time with Freemasonry, especially the rituals. They were so full of meaning, and uplifting as well.

Looking back in time, while I was working for the Bureau of Statistics, I was taken by a Treasury officer to a lunch hour meeting of Australian Rostrum. It is a nation-wide organisation providing training in public speaking and chairmanship. It was, and is, low cost, democratic and efficient. Throughout the nation, our members then included a Commissioner of the PSB in Canberra, other senior public servants, barristers, and many other prominent and able men. It took me about five years of hard work some time later to have women admitted.

This stance of mine led me to being seen as a feminist, and resulted in me being interviewed for the position of head of policy in women's affairs in the Prime Minister's Department in the 1970s. I had Buckley's hope, of course. But, I did wonder if some of those benefiting from the affirmative action policy of having 50% of all senior positions in the public service and in the private sector occupied by women as soon as possible might have been weighed down by an excess of testosterone, and thereby not seen as adequately sensitive to the needs of ordinary, less able women. Whether there is a real need for agencies dealing with gender (not sex) discrimination and women's affairs is a moot point. Surely all of us need to be protected and to be treated equally.

In Rostrum, within a couple of years, I was elected one of the critics, evaluating the day's speeches and the chairman's performance. In time, I was the occasional guest critic for other clubs including the US-affiliated Toastmistress Club. I sought to provide specific guidance for improvement in my evaluations. I might have been a teacher in a past life. Then I was elected a number of the Dais, which is the state or territory-wide policy coordinating unit, as each club is operationally autonomous. Soon after I challenged a vice-president of Dais on something or other, I found myself on the Executive. Better have an enemy inside rather than outside one's tent, OK?

Subsequently, as a vice-president myself, I managed and taught at training courses for the public through the ACT Australian Institute of Management. Then I successfully offered courses over three years to public service departments. Attendees included foreign service trainees from countries throughout the Pacific and Asia; graduate entrants into the PSB; and administrative entrants into the Department of Trade and Industry; and trainee trade commissioners.

The money earned by Rostrum was directed to the successful public speaking competition for secondary schools in the national capital established and managed by my friend Tom, a former national president. What Rostrum did well was also to identify and train future leaders, years ahead. I was Tom's protégé.

I then decided to establish a primary schools public speaking competition. After all, it was my training activities that was raising the required funds. That took me and two colleagues three years. Nothing is achieved without a competent and supportive team. After thirty five or so years, it is still very viable, thanks to a committed team of organisers and adjudicators. This competition covers the national capital and a few townships surrounding it. Then Tom and I extended his competition into a nation-wide one, within one year. That was my first year as national president, and my second year as state president.

As national president, I convinced the organisation to accept women, and personally amended the Constitution accordingly. I incorporated the ACT Dais to provide legal protection to office holders. But I failed to incorporate the national council, for structural reasons. I also established a training panel and the formal accreditation of critics in the national capital and associated districts. Naturally, each of these achievements involved a very committed team behind me. I was very fortunate in this regard.

My contribution to the establishment of desired community organisations goes back a little way. At Melbourne University, a number of us set up the Malayan Students' Association of Victoria. Then, another group of us established the Overseas Students' Association of Melbourne University. Our first president was Dr Jim Cairns, a senior lecturer in economics, later a minister in the Whitlam Government. In Canberra, a few of us set up the ACT Squash Racquets Association.

During my term as national president, my wife and I were invited to Government House as luncheon guests of the Governor-General Sir John Kerr, an eminent constitutional lawyer, and his wife. Who should be walking up the other driveway, but my Treasury head and his wife. I wonder what he felt about sharing the GG's table with one of his many junior underlings. On the day the GG had replaced the Whitlam Government with a Fraser Government, a colleague and I had been listening to the radio in my room. I recollect my young colleague shedding a tear or two, explaining that about 85% of Treasury staff voted Labor.

As a political orphan and a swinging voter, my primary interest was, however, the Australian economy. I despised both leaders for behaving like Rottweilers. History might show that neither was as wonderful as their supporters now apparently suggest.

As a communitarian small-l liberal, I thought that the GG had made the right decision: let the electorate decide. As I was greeted by the GG, I thanked him for his decision. The merest smile flickered on his face. I wonder how many of his many guests had ever done that.

As national president, I had shared the head table with state governors in two states. Each state governor, as patron of Rostrum in that state, and I were given equal billing, each making the customary speech. I remember a very witty and clever Governor of Tasmania. After I was seen chatting animatedly with the wife of the Lord Mayor of Hobart, I was asked by the Hobart Executive how I had got her to chat so freely. Children, I said. At other times, I had been given equal billing with federal ministers. I found their wives very chatty, simply through talking about our children. None of them was in the least stuffy.

Those were very productive years, which helped to offset my damaged self-esteem whilst climbing out of that crevasse I had thrown myself into, by choosing the worst job out of the three available. Surely it was Destiny at work, testing me. Did I not learn to work myself out of that crevasse, and also to acquire useful knowledge and skills, and subsequently to seek to contribute to the nation to which I seemed to have been sent?

Everything was hunky-dory until my wife decided to leave me. By that time our two children had finished school. That almost destroyed me, as it wrecked the unity and integrity of my family. That was no flat-tyre event. For an Asian with on-going close contacts with his genetic extended family, that disaster was a major wheel falling off event, with two wheels rolling off into the distance, whilst the nuts on the remaining wheels had been loosened by senior rats in my final place of employment. However, that is also a later story.

Before that disaster, however, my family had had a rich social life. However, like so many other parents whose children were competent at sport, we spent far too much time trundling my son to various townships over the weekends, or supporting him at local games. As a consequence, we became somewhat disengaged from our friends.

Until then, we had socialised with a variety of friends: a couple of academics, a couple of diplomats, fellow volunteers in civil society, and public servants. With public servants, the pecking order was rigid. Those above my official classification said they were too busy to accept my invitations. Those significantly below would refuse my invitation, even after we had entertained one another for a few years. Why so? Because I had now risen up the ladder. What a silly way to lose friends.

We also entertained, from time to time, overseas students and Colombo Plan Fellows. As we grew older we preferred the older visitors. These ranged from the odd African to a range of Asians. When I was considering a job with the Asian Development Bank in Manila, but was a little hesitant about working under the Japanese who seemed to dominate the bank, a Philippino guest recommended that I ignore the gated and guarded ex-patriate residential complexes, and live with the Philippino people. I decided to continue my simple life in Australia.

I followed with great interest Australia's perception of near Asian neighbours. Indonesia, with rare exceptions, was often described as a future threat to Australia, or just denigrated. Yet, Bali is so popular that even those on the dole can be found in the swimming pools of its expensive tourist hotels. Officialdom here did not seem to have discovered that Indonesia is as valuable to the USA as is Australia. The Aussies did not seem to be aware of Indonesia's policy of Panchasila, fostering mutual tolerance between its varied multi-ethnic multicultural communities.

Malaysia tended to be described as another Muslim nation, in spite of its multi-ethnic multicultural population. Some news reports highlighted ethnic tensions wherever this was imagined to exist. Singapore went from communist-inspired to communist-sympathetic to socialist to a democracy, in spite of no change in government or its style of rule. That it too is protected by the USA has at last been recognised.

When Prime Minister Dr Mahathir, on advice from Prof. Klugman of the USA, countered most effectively the hedge funds and other money market players in their game plan to make mega bucks by destroying the Asian economies, did the media go mad! But, then, they were only reporting what they had been told.

One of the benefits of the damage to the economies of Thailand, the Philippines and Indonesia was that major US corporations could then buy local businesses cheaply in the ensuing fire sales. These corporations could then participate in ASEAN as Asian companies, and thereby share in the growing strength of ASEAN. Indeed, the currency breakdown in the mid-1990s may have been intended to slow down ASEAN's growth as well. The creation of APEC, with some Japanese, Australians and Americans all claiming paternity, seemed intended to over-ride ASEAN. But, APEC apparently did little to nothing to moderate the Asian currency meltdown. Thus, there remains the residual but discrete stench of neo-colonialism in Australia's perception and approach to South East Asia, even as Australia remains a supplier of only raw materials, food, flowers, and some education to the fast-growing industrial and high-tech economies of Asia; and as acolyte to globalising US corporations.

As for relations with the USA, we are effectively a satrapy. Were we to be accepted as a new state member of the great USA, we could continue our role as Deputy Sheriff, participate in the same wars but not pay for the equipment, and integrate our economy with that of the USA. It should be a win-win result, also solving the monarchy-republican debate. There should be a great saving, offset only by a loss of historical pomp.

In the meantime, my personal river of Destiny took me to where I had to go, no matter how hard I paddled to change directions.

### Chapter 5

THE FORKS IN THE ROAD

Neither evil tongues,

Rash judgements, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e'er prevail against us.

\- William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850)

To an enhanced Australia

In the reality of living, could one not recognise a fork on the road that one is on? Anyway, I had not considered the possibility of a fork appearing on my road. Neither did I seek one, as I suspected that I would never be forgiven for falling into that hole which was not there. Even after being denied the promotion that my peer group said was mine, I had not sought a change of job; I was confident of holding my place. All of a sudden, I was offered a transfer to the Department of Immigration & Ethnic Affairs by its head, with a promise of promotion. I took it with great alacrity.

When I arrived at the Ethnic Affairs Branch as its Section Head, I was given a desk in the middle of a nearly empty room and some files to read. I detected little warmth in the Branch Head. After eighteen years with my own room, it was strange to be treated as flotsam (or was it jetsam?). After a week, I was ready to leave, as no work was in the offing. The Ethnic Affairs policy area was, I discovered, a bit of window dressing to satisfy the egos of those I describe as professional ethnics.

To me, a professional ethnic is one who is not satisfied with just pride in his ancestry. He parades publicly those of his cultural values and practices which set him apart from those of other cultures. To me, a person emphasising his cultural difference is implicitly claiming cultural superiority. Normally, no one else cares about such posturing. It was only when multicultural _policy_ was introduced by governments seeking to harness ethnic votes (so they thought foolishly) that this parading and pirouetting started to pay. The professional ethnics are thus the tribally focused immigrants and some of their brain-washed offspring.

The attempted ethnic vote-catching by governments led to a degree of ethnic empowerment through the creation of positions on advisory boards and such like. This then led to some ethnic community leaders to hope for early crowning ceremonies. Some of them actually sought the right to determine the annual immigration intake. The American idea of an intake proportional to the ethnic dispersion in the population must have been attractive. Some also denied that English is the national language. This led me to wonder if these visionaries would accept Mandarin and Spanish as co-equal to English, in anticipation of a foreseeable future. Unsurprisingly, the Government insisted on controlling immigrant entry, and that English will remain the national language.

Committees organising cultural and social events for their communities are not uncommon. However, in the 1970s, led by certain academics who published articles galore, and supported by men who had political contacts, there was a powerful push claiming that immigrants from non-English speaking countries (NES) had been seriously disadvantaged in access to services for all those years since entry to Australia. The sponsors of this push, generally from NES countries, were very fluent in English. These immigrants were, naturally, white and from Europe. All government agencies were suddenly claimed to be inadequately servicing these immigrants of a NES background (the NESB). Whereas immigrants had previously found their way to necessary agencies, with some help from Good Neighbour Councils, from other helpful Anglo-Australians, and from their own compatriots, they now needed taxpayer-paid fellow-ethnics to show them the way. Spokesmen for the NESB wanted a parallel service structure of their own.

Any ethnic community organisation funded by the taxpayer gains great credibility and durability. Millions of dollars were spent on this new policy of funding ethnic community organisations to provide settlement assistance to immigrants. The immigrants were told where to go to obtain services available from the three levels of government, as well as from the private sector. A lot of useful work was done. Each ethnic community that could organise itself had a strong chance of obtaining a grant to pay for a grant-in-aid (GIA) worker. This worker would assist the migrant in the migrant's own language. In time, almost every major community received some support. The older communities remained on the gravy train for years in spite of the substantial fall-off in arrivals caused by the growing strength of Europe.

What of the smaller or newer communities, especially those who were not yet able to organise themselves, or who had no idea about the ethno-specific support which could be accessed, or who were not readily identifiable as 'ethnic?' The newer communities were clearly in greater need of settlement support than those communities which had been around for some time. The bucket of available funds was also not increasing in volume. As well, there was no evaluation of the effectiveness of the grants, as also with the other structures set up to complement the GIA, such as the migrant resource centres (MRCs).

Indeed, the MRCs were somewhat anomalous. They could not possibly provide the language-specific services for the diverse ethnic origins of those who sought assistance. So, many immigrants were assisted in English!

My attempt to have evaluations of the effectiveness of GIAs and MRCs commenced in the late 1980s failed. I could not even find out the categories of service need met by the ethnic workers; or of the ethnicities of the clients of the MRCs. There were no attempts to obtain necessary overviews; indeed, no usable records were kept. Everyone said that they were too busy helping. They were happy with what they were doing. Process was all. How then could anyone identify any unmet need? Presumably the squeaky-wheel test would do! Early in the early 1990s, there was still talk of setting up an evaluation process. Did anyone really want one?

Naturally, in each state and territory, there had to be a coordinating agency for the ethnic community organisations; then a national agency. The public service in my day drew up most of the agenda for annual conferences, supplied the briefing papers, and provided required administrative support. All this cost the taxpayer a great deal of scarce funds. Then there were the official state and national advisory bodies, whose members were competent academics, businessmen and priests, to advise on issues referred to them by the Minister. Briefing papers were provided to these bodies by public servants like me. There were few immigrants in the public service to carry out these tasks of some responsibility. How could Anglo-Aussies understand the imperatives of the migrant settlement process? My view is that most did not.

Could _mainstreaming_ have been better than a parallel settlement service structure? That is, would it have been better for the nation if all government, as well as private, service agencies had enhanced their capacity to help the NESB immigrants in their own languages? There are four strong arguments in support of mainstreaming: it is more efficient, and probably cheaper; it requires every service delivery agency to cater for _all_ the people, including the new ethnically diverse ones; it is better if the new arrivals were thus to be integrated into the mainstream communities in their locale; and there would be no suggestion that any community was in some way unique, even in relative deprivation.

However, once the cat of ethnic identity and cultural separation was let out of the bag of a desired integrated people in the nation, the federal government was prevailed upon to establish a multicultural policy. Establishing such a policy, the federal government claimed to be managing multiculturalism. Officialdom, having labelled ethnic diversity as multiculturalism, now also labelled as multiculturalism its policy of managing this diversity. When, three decades later, this policy was discarded in favour of an integrated people unified through a shared citizenship, disaffected ethnic community members protested profusely that governments were actually denying the reality of ethnic diversity. Instead, immigration is becoming more and more ethnically diverse, as politicians, normally more conservative than the public, realise that mutual social acceptance and cultural integration are actually increasing.

What did multiculturalism policy seek to achieve? Its motives were mixed. Requiring immigrants to accept and respect Australia's Constitution and other institutional structures, arrangements and procedures was good. But, did this need saying? By and large, most immigrants do seek to adapt to their new home. They generally succeed in this endeavour, seamlessly getting on with their lives under the umbrella of these institutional structures and arrangements. Equal opportunity is thus enhanced, as is social harmony.

Encouraging ethnic communities, that is the immigrants and their Australian-born descendants, to retain those features of their cultural traditions which are not incompatible with Australia's institutions and social mores was another objective. Yet, this arm of policy was strange. Have immigrants and their descendants ever been denied the right to pray as they wish; to prepare and eat the foods they wish; to speak the languages they wish; to dress as they wish; to celebrate their cultural traditions as they wish?

There may be certain cultural practices which are illegal. This is soon discovered. Certain behaviours will be anathema to other Australians, irrespective of origin. This will also be soon discovered. Was the government going to list these anathematic practices, community by community?

Anglo-Australians were also, under this policy, asked to move over in their political, occupational and sacred site sandpits to make way for their ethnic brethren. Is this realistic? If equal opportunity and merit selection were to apply, both in law and in practice, would there be need for such a policy? Which community or group in positions of power or influence can be expected to move aside just because the government asks it nicely to do so?

All communities were also asked to tolerate with mutual respect the cultural values and traditions of all other communities. This injunction was worthy of note. But, could the government gag those priests and politicians who fanned old ethnic enmities? Those Roman Catholics of Irish descent who have been trying for more than 200 years to have an officially secular nation conform to Vatican social policies, especially with regard to matters pertaining to the nether-lands of the human female come to mind. I see no cross-cultural respect here. Can one now blame those Muslim immigrants who are seeking sharia law in Australia or who insist on wearing the full burqa when teaching in school?

Multiculturalism policy did encourage the persistence of cultural and (thereby) the ideological separation of many of the residents and citizens of Australia. It had to go, in the interests of a more cohesive Australian people. Education and habituation, involving more direct contact with others who are different, will normally lead ethnic diversity to an integrated people. This may possibly result in a revised national identity, and upgraded national icons. If that does not work, should governments ban the public display of accoutrements of ethnic separation and implied superiority?

In any event, could one not expect that head gear, clothing, and other symbols defining the separation of cultures might not be popular by the third generation; that is, by the grandchildren of immigrants? Members of an integrated people, such as the Aussie Anglo-Celts, might be entitled to ask why third or fourth generation Australians who were born, educated and acculturated in Australia would insist on displaying the headgear, clothing and other accoutrements of their distant ancestors in distant lands, especially where the operational cultures in those lands are significantly at variance with that prevailing in Australia.

Surely there would be a place in their ancestral homelands for those who would wish to identify with the cultures of these homelands. This is to argue that ethnic diversity does not entail ethno-cultural separation. This is also to say that, whilst nationalism has a place, for political reasons, insistence on a retained ethno-centrism is highly questionable.

Whilst immigrants will tend to retain their cultures untarnished, and their children, the second generation Australians, can be expected to support, to a degree, their parents' practices and inherited prejudices, could not the third generation be expected to reflect more the national ethos? Are not the secular schools the great equalisers, almost by osmosis? Is this a sufficient case for getting rid of ethno-religious schools? Indeed, do these schools delay the integration of citizens with diverse ancestries?

Whilst I was reading up on ethnic affairs policy, I did not hear from my boss. I was told that he was a "surplus officer" from the PSB. It was amazing how many such officers from PSB then found a home-away-from-home in the tail-end department of Canberra. I do not know if these PSB lads were actually surplus. Worse still, the department was, like the major money collecting departments, known as a Catholic domain. How or why, I do not know. But then, Treasury's core division was then also said to be filling rapidly with first class honours graduates who had attended parochial schools but who also asserted a necessary belief in the primacy and sanctity of market forces. This development was made known to me by a young man working in my section in the Treasury. He explained that he was one of the new category of intakes, the future leaders.

Out of the blue, the head of management division, another ex-PSB officer (a man I had known casually), asked if I would take on a very special task. It seemed that I would actually have some work to do. When, after examining the task overnight, I said I would take it on, his surprising response was "Don't be a bloody fool." A novel federal Cabinet decision to levy fees for certain administrative services, such as a return entry visa for those non-citizen permanent residents going overseas for a holiday or to visit family, had a tight deadline for implementation. The head of the branch responsible for implementation, considered the government's decision "immoral", and had actually refused to work on it. And he had got away with that remarkable stance. The Executive, meeting fortnightly, wearing white shirts and conservative ties under dark suits, had not apparently realised that only a few weeks remained, and the work had not even begun. What sort of an Executive was this?

At a meeting I attended, the Minister was adamant that the deadline would be met, saying "I do not care if the public servants responsible work all day and all night to get the job done." That was going to be me and my team.

Since quite a few senior backsides were at risk, I was given full freedom, supported by two clever young men, to get the job done in the limited time available. What a challenge! Backed by the heads of management and finance, we threatened or cajoled other agencies to obtain agreement to bend many a bureaucratic rule, sidelined uncooperative branch heads within the department, bought necessary equipment, had staff trained, and set up security arrangements. I personally drafted, over a single weekend, necessary instructions to all immigration posts within Australia and overseas, and had them sent off on the following Monday. The area that should have done all this work then complained that I had not obtained from them an appropriate circular number! Since they had refused to help my team, I had no obligation to consider their sensitivities.

The job was well done, said the departmental head. I had had an interesting time. My confidence was almost at its peak. Whilst I was thanked profusely by senior management, I suspected that I had made a few enemies. I was not to know that they would hang around to make my life uncomfortable. And it came to pass that today a whole range of immigration services has to be paid for. User pays is here to stay.

Before I could settle down, possibly to boredom, I was asked to go to Melbourne as the federal Chief Ethnic Affairs Officer for the State of Victoria. I was now the department's Mr. Fixit. I did wonder if they had ever had one before. It was all very flattering. With two local immigrant staff, I was to introduce and establish a new policy for providing language and culture-specific settlement support for the smaller ethnic communities in need of such help. The Minister issued a press release about my background and future responsibilities. I had direct access to the Minister, also based in Melbourne. The departmental policy briefs to the Minister, covering all aspects of policy and administration, were made available to me. Since it was not available to the Regional Director, it indicated something about my status.

Almost immediately we found elderly Chinese, Muslim women, and the Turkish community to be in urgent need, in circumstances where the major ethnic communities, already well looked after, were being considered for additional public funding.

I was able to have officers allocated to advise each of these communities as to their potential entitlements, and how to go about accessing them. This way, my team remained at arm's length. We were the facilitators. Strangely, I found that I had to make up these procedures as I went along. Had head office been serious about this new policy?

The Chinese had first to form a committee. That was soon done by competent business men. The elderly men seemed to be orphans. They were too poor to return to China to die, consistent with their traditions. Apparently they lived in Little Bourke Street, where most of the Chinese restaurants were initially sited. I also wondered why they had not been assisted before by any level of government.

The Muslim women were under the purview of the progressive imams of two mosques. I was pleased to see the women attending classes at the mosques about adapting to Australia's mores. Naturally, some of the men needed some education in this regard, especially those of a NES background. The structures were therefore already in place to handle any grant. Yet, there was clear prejudice against the Muslim peoples held by those I spoke to in the office. The memory of the Crusades appeared to loom large in their minds.

I was told by them that the Government of Saudi Arabia was funding the Muslims in Australia. Hence, Australian taxpayer support was not necessary. In fact, Saudi Arabia, a friend of the West, had provided nothing more than a subsidy to the construction of mosques. This was not acknowledged. That the Muslim peoples in Australia who were in need of settlement support were white Muslims did not matter either. Worse still, the Turkish community was claimed by these public servants to be led by communists. There was no evidence for this. Settlement assistance through GIA had, however, been given to the Dutch, the Jewish people, Yugoslavs and other European communities!

It was the lowest paid Turkish people who were experiencing difficulties in settlement, and yet were not assisted by any level of government. It was only in the early 1960s that immigrants from Turkey were admitted. White Muslim people, eg from the former Yugoslavia, and the lightly tanned Levantines from the east coast of the Mediterranean Sea, were filling the gaps left by the traditional European immigrant. The latter had now no reason to leave a fast-growing Europe.

Many of the Turkish immigrants seemingly thought they were going to Austria as guest workers. They worked in factories. They seemed to be ignorant about Australian welfare services. They therefore put their hands into their own pockets to pay for funerals, and to subsidise any dependant families. Their mosque and meeting house in Melbourne was a private home. In my view, these were the kind of immigrants Australia needs; that is, those who contribute to the nation, but cost it little in welfare.

The Minister accepted the departmental recommendation that these three communities receive a grant each. The Chinese received their money promptly. The other two grants were never paid, to my knowledge. The responsible departmental officers claimed that the Muslim people, including the Turks, could not find suitable settlement workers; that is, the workers nominated were not acceptable to these junior public servants in Melbourne! Strangely, the Sydney office also had the same problem, in spite of the leader of the community being employed by the Department.

By talking openly to the movers and shakers in the business of providing settlement support through the Government's GIA program, I was able to have accepted by them, as well as by the leaders of the ethnic communities, that the bucket of public money is finite; and that we had to prioritise future grant money allocation. It was clear to me that the ethnic workers were pleased to be able to exchange views with another migrant. I found them most reasonable, especially when I showed them how much grant money had already been given by the three levels of government on settlement assistance to Victoria's ethnic communities, and which of these communities had benefited most. Our early research certainly paid off.

For the first time, all claimants in Victoria could see the whole picture, thus reducing any scope previously available for decision makers in Canberra to be unduly flexible. There was one amusing exchange at one of our monthly meetings. The GIA directors asked if they could decide the allocation of grant monies. My response was: "If I place a plate of sweets on the table in front of you, who amongst you would ensure that those not at the table would get a fair share?" That brought an understanding laugh. My next question was: "How are you more qualified than I am to make an objective judgment?" That brought another collective laugh. I doubt if any white public servant would have talked so openly. They certainly appreciated it. How do I know? Because they said so.

My recommendations as to how applications for grants ought now to be evaluated and prioritised was accepted. That is, all applications would now be appraised against the grants already received, and then prioritised in terms of relative need. The branch head responsible for this work was apparently not amused by the outsider determining his operational guidelines.

But there was always a political need to buy off certain applicants. The enticing aroma of free public money tends to give rise to claim that someone wants to do good for someone else, if only government money is made available. Occasionally, this plea is accompanied by a threat to go to the press. It is cheaper sometimes to hand over a minuscule grant with a press release extolling the piety of the pleader. These pious fellows might be Local Government councilors, ethnic community leaders, or Catholic clergy. The Minister would, of course, be told which of such small grants, given out of what I thought of as a slush fund, was intended to grease a squeaky wheel.

The new policy of assisting the smaller ethnic communities had merit, for the time being. Greater equity would now prevail. The policy was worthy of protection; at least until mainstreaming was adopted.

However, an interesting development at a meeting in a country town of representatives of about fifteen ethnic origins was that the immigrants from earlier periods opposed the current government intervention in migrant settlement. They had settled in well by themselves, hadn't they? There were also those who opposed the establishment of a parallel system of settlement support. They argued in favour of mainstreaming. The meeting also put to rest that claim that Australia's alleged policy of assimilation had denied them the right to practice their cultures. It has always been my view that the policy of assimilation, that is, total absorption into the nation, applied only to the Aborigines. Their colour and culture were to be bred out. In contrast, immigrants were to integrate, that is to become part of the nation as cultural wholes. However, from time to time, officialdom did erroneously use the word assimilation in relation to migrant settlement.

It is an undeniable fact that neither the initially broadly unwanted Jewish arrivals escaping the Nazis prewar, nor the reluctantly accepted postwar displaced persons, nor the later immigrants from Europe and elsewhere, had ever been denied the right to practice their cultures. However, they were indeed encouraged to speak English, especially in public, and to accept Australia's social mores (no spitting in public, etc). It is also an unexceptionable axiom that such adaptation enhances one's scope for exploiting the equal opportunity, and social and occupational mobility, that clearly exists in Australia, within the limits of one's ability, and possibly some ethno-religious bias by some of the host people.

Working at a responsible level in government in a city which could not previously find a place for me as an executive was interesting. My status was as equal second-in-command in the Melbourne office. My job had been sought by many persons of an ethnic background in Melbourne. So, when I arrived to lead a tiny team of locals, there was great interest in me, my background, and the way I worked. I was personally asked how I qualified for the job. I was therefore not surprised when the day after I had paid my respects to the local head of ASIO, to have a prominent community leader ask about my meeting behind the unmarked door in such and such a building. I was impressed. However, I did speculate that the only junior officer who knew where I was going had leaked the information to a fellow ethnic. The only issue was, if others knew about that unmarked door......!

Soon after I commenced working on that job, I was asked to get a particular gentleman on side. He wore three influential ethnic hats. After about 90 minutes of listening to his tirade, it became clear that he had a grudge against the department. He would not agree to help my work, although I represented a policy initiative of considerable benefit to the ethnic community. He was also very much aware of the Minister's media release about me and my task; and that I had direct access to the Minister. The manner of my dealing with him led my boss to describe me on my return as a toe-cutter. Soon after, we bought off the gentleman with a small grant, for 'research'!

Then, a Vietnamese, claiming to represent his people, asked me for money to buy a typewriter. He wanted to produce community newsletters. "What happened to the previous one this office gave you?" I asked. "Lost" said he. I suggested that he form a committee, enrol members, and identify the community activities planned. He came back a week later and repeated his request, without any information about a community committee. In the meantime, I had discovered that, as an English speaker, he was known as a go-between, a facilitator, who charged a fee for his services. He was no leader. When I pointed out that I too had to follow due process, he said "My friends think you must be a communist. That is why you will not help us." It gave me great delight to tell this wannabe extortionist that ASIO knew me as a staunch anti-communist; and that I would now inform the Minister about his threat to me. We never saw him or heard about him after that.

He was not the only immigrant seeking to exploit what he saw as an opportunity to receive but not to reciprocate. Later, there were two Anglo-Australian men, each representing a religious organisation, who had been successful in tapping into a public financial faucet in a manner inconsistent with their faith. When my teams discovered this, we ensured that the faucet was turned off.

From reliable information, it also became clear that our refugee intake, selected from the camps in Thailand, Malaysia, and other nations of first asylum, included quite a few crooks and thugs. For instance, during a peaceful public march in the city commemorating an anniversary of the anti-Vietnam War Moratorium, a number of Vietnamese attacked the marchers, injuring four policemen in the process. Head office asked that I stop any thuggery planned by the Vietnamese for that same evening. We learnt that the police were looking forward to offering some reciprocity in violence; and that guns, baseball bats and other weapons had been found in the migrant hostels. All were confiscated. The question was: who had provided these?

My team rang a few known Vietnamese leaders to invite them to work with the police that afternoon. We told the police that the good guys would join them to talk the thugs out of violence. These leaders were authorised to advise the thugs that Vietnamese refugee entry would be closed for good were they to become violent. The TV that night showed a swarm of bandana-wearing, baseball bat and stave-holding, angry-looking thugs held back on the pavement by a rope. The police were reported to have been frustrated.

The next morning, my team challenged the community leaders. Why had we not been alerted to the thuggery planned? They must have got wind of it. Why did we have to rely on the media after the event? They promised early warning of any unacceptable behaviour planned. 'Refugee' entry was not jeopardised.

Whereas most of the Vietnamese refugees were good settlers, there were reliable reports of a gang from one city beating up a gang in another city and torching their cars; or using refugee minors as gang members. By and large, if a loophole existed or could be created in any benefit available, there would, our welfare officers said, be a Vietnamese involved. For a while, the Department foolishly permitted personal particulars to be amended, for years after their arrival. Names, ages or relationships were all changed to enable a benefit. I was told about a wife in a migrant hostel who suddenly became a sister, after three months of living together. The only feature that was not sought to be changed under that policy was gender. Nature can be quite inflexible.

The Australian people who had been fed on pap about the 'yellow hordes' from the north, who would pretend any day that Australia was still _terra nullius_ , were very generous in their treatment of the initially unwanted refugees. Was it guilt, I wondered, at Australia's insistence on joining the American War as the Vietnamese see it? Did the Vietnamese know that Australia is afraid to live without a protector? That it had voluntarily changed its allegiance from Mother England to the USA? That it would fight in any war that the White House chose? That it remains uncomfortable because it is surrounded by foreign cultures, led by people who will not accept Australia's political leadership and guidance?

On a very positive note: a Moon Festival weekend organised by the Vietnamese community in Melbourne was a grand success. I represented the Minister at the festival. About three thousand five hundred Vietnamese were estimated to have attended. I also represented the Minister at a Hmong gathering at a town hall, addressing those present; at a dinner for the Chinese Vice-Premier at which I had to demonstrate necessary skills with chopsticks; and at a celebration of their national day with one of the Baltic nations, and with a Greek community.

I also met many community leaders and ethnic welfare workers. It was a very busy but productive time. Best of all was appearing live on ethnic radio; sometimes I forgot that the red light was on, indicating that I was on air. Presumably, that was why I was described as the best interviewee ever, by the very popular interviewer, an immigrant from Germany. I also had a couple of meetings with the Minister. At one meeting, he asked me what I thought about opening the immigration door wide. This was in spite of the fact that we already had a non-discriminatory entry policy from about 1973. Pointing out that I was expressly denied the right to involve myself with migrant entry, I said that my private view was this: "Why should we assume that Australia has the best crooks in the world?" The Minister said that he liked that response.

The 2001 Census did show that the majority of the Asians in Australia came from East Asia. The brown people from the Indian sub-continent, most of whom speak English well, were noticeably low in numbers. The majority of the Asian intake also defined themselves as Christians. The first outcome was achieved by having a tight entry door against the darker people. However, some time later, a research study showed that the highest income earners amongst the Asians were those from the Indian sub-continent, followed by those from South East Asia. Today, there seems to be a disproportionately large presence of coloured people in the lowest of jobs in offices, hospitals, etc.

Over all, it was clear from my in-depth official investigations, that our postwar migrants, including the refugees, were settling in successfully. Australia was becoming ethnically diverse. But I hoped that we would not become culturally diverse in a mutually-exclusive manner. Chauvinistic ethnic pride should surely be eroded by the third generation, to enable an integrated Australia. It is clear that this outcome can be achieved, provided the tribal leaders, viz. the priests and politicians, did not set up any ethno-religious barriers, as happened in the past.

Whilst I was in Melbourne, the departmental head who intended to promote me retired. The new policy seemed to be fizzing out. I therefore asked to be returned. I knew that my ship was dead in the water when the job that was to be mine was given to an outsider. That was a terrible shock to me. The decision was made by a new head who had, in his day, been a political appointee elsewhere. He was now seeking to recover the feathers he had lost a few years back through a change of government. The reality of this world is that many a human 'rooster' has to adapt to becoming a 'feather duster'; and subsequently a 'bag of feathers'. I, on the other hand, had been de-feathered before I could become a rooster. Perhaps my destiny is to clear cobwebs everywhere!

I was then asked to produce a policy paper on citizenship enhancement for the powerful national advisory committee on ethnic affairs. Its members were notables within their communities, as well as in a broader sphere. Whilst I was reading up on the subject, the head of the Citizenship & Language Services Branch suddenly retired. I was asked to be acting head of the Branch but also to continue with my project. What faith the departmental head now showed in my ability!

In the Citizenship Section were the country's two foremost experts, with one the historian as well. With their help, I completed the advisory paper well within the year. It was favourably received, and subsequently tabled in the federal parliament. The Chairman of the Council and I have kept in touch, with mutual respect. It would appear that my paper was the fastest briefing paper ever produced for the Council. Again, it was the team which enabled such success.

We also, much to everyone's surprise, completed the first major revision to the Australian Citizenship Act within the same year. That task was strangely initiated by my simple enquiry as to why I as a British Subject, had not been required to attend a citizenship ceremony. The Act had, in 1948, converted the Aussies from British Subjects to Australian Citizens. My expert team and I recommended the removal of certain anomalies in the Act, introduced parity in processing between British and non-British applicants for citizenship and, more significantly, stressed that citizenship meant a commitment to the nation.

No matter what the internationalists and globalisers might prefer, national borders continue to be relevant. Security, trade, socio-cultural cohesion, an intangible pride of belonging to one's people, even if they happen to be a mixture of ethnic, linguistic or other origins, are still relevant.

Our most significant proposal was that no one should govern, fight for, or administer Australia without a commitment to the nation, displayed through their citizenship. This was adopted by the government almost immediately. Many a military chief had then to become a citizen before his contract could be renewed. Many public servants and school teachers had to be placed on temporary contracts until they qualified for citizenship. At that time, to qualify for citizenship, one had to be a permanent resident, living in Australia for five years out of eight. No one complained, to my knowledge. In that period, an immigrant could come to understand the imperatives of being an Australian, in terms of the nation's institutions, both legal and cultural, and its social mores.

Suddenly, both sides of politics entered into a bidding war for what they believed to be ethnic votes. When the waiting period was reduced to three years by one government, the other offered two years. Thus, any imported crook or criminal had only to wait for two years to receive the protection of Australian citizenship. A short two-year wait also allowed wealthy East Asian businessmen to return to the high lifestyles of their former countries of residence, with Australian passports. Australia was only a potential bolt-hole for these. This new policy also allowed former refugees and humanitarian entrants to return, as Australian citizens, to the countries from which they claimed to have fled because they feared official persecution or discrimination.

Today, with dual citizenship, Australian citizenship provides mainly a document of identity. Australian citizens can now fight for a foreign country without being defined a mercenary, were they to possess the citizenship of that country as well. In more normal times, when the imperatives of globalisation and the need to import foreign CEOs to manage major Australian corporations were not so compelling, any Australian citizens seeking and _accepting_ the citizenship of another country lost their Australian citizenship automatically. Where, of course, a foreign citizenship was _imposed_ on an Australian citizen, usually one who was an Australian citizen by birth, because he had foreign male antecedents, that imposed citizenship had no adverse effect.

This imposition of the citizenship of another country is enabled by the Napoleonic code, in certain countries, eg. Greece, Italy, Russia, China and others. This code defines all the male descendents of a former male citizen of one of these countries as citizens of that country, no matter where these descendents were born or now lived. A young Australian visiting his ancestral homeland could find himself subject to national service in that land because of that imposed citizenship. I was told of a Greek Australian immigration officer who could not, in my day, be sent to Greece. On the other hand, there was a report of an Italian Australian, also Australia-born, who paid a large sum of money to avoid national service in his ancestral home. The value of modern citizenship may thus lie in the eye of the beholder than that of the holder.

Ironically, the British government had legislated at about the same time that my team was removing any distinction between British and other immigrants to remove my right as a British subject to entry and residence in Britain. I had arrived in Australia with a British passport. An interesting aside: at a time when Australians were woeful soccer players, indulging often in that practice described as bringing the opposing player down whenever that player had a positional advantage, we needed a particular British player for the national team. As in so many of our sports, we import the necessary talent, irrespective of skin colour, language, or intention to reside in Australia permanently. His period of qualifying residence for citizenship had to be assessed against more than one re-reading of the then Citizenship Act by Attorney-General's Department. He was ultimately made an Australian citizen, much to everyone's delight. At his first representative game, the poor man broke his leg. I was then acting head of the Citizenship Branch. Twenty-five years later, Australia is still trying to join the big boys in soccer (now called football), but with home grown players.

Our proposed amendments to the Citizenship Act were cleared with Attorney-General's, Foreign Affairs, and other relevant departments, also all within that year. We thought that we had done exceeding well. Outstanding performance can, however, generate jealousy, and subsequent antagonism and discrimination in some quarters. When these quarters are based upstairs......! Whilst we were taxing our brains and working our butts off, my boss decided to learn about citizenship by addressing a written question to us about the current Act every two weeks. Not trusting him, I made sure that he received an adequate written response promptly. Apparently my predecessor had ignored him successfully. Our work and courtesy were never acknowledged.

This boss was believed to have blocked my path to promotion at every stage. If so, why? Pettiness can prevail when jealousy arises from a perceived relative inadequacy. Or, was I seen as an unacceptable blackfellow because of my high profile? Or, was it my faith? It was not easy for me, mentally and emotionally, to work under bosses so prejudiced. At times, this prejudice was almost visible. I suspect that I grew spiritually out of such demeaning experiences. The agents of the Cosmos must know what they are doing.

On the Language Services half of my bailiwick, we served NAATI, an advisory body of highly qualified academics working on the accreditation of translators and interpreters. NAATI did excellent work, led by the former Vice-Chancellor of the University of Tasmania, whose previous job had been as Deputy Governor of Rhodesia. Once, when my work took me to Hobart, the chairman took me to lunch at his exclusive club. I found him a most charming and interesting man, thus moderating my negative views about colonial officers. At the club, he pointed out to me many a local notable. One was an 85 year old who continued to crew his yacht regularly. I do thank the planets for enabling me to meet such interesting and able people, who are making a strong contribution to improving the nation.

Language Services included the Telephone Interpreter Service and the Translation Service. These were staffed by immigrants, as might be expected. Sadly, as in Melbourne, immigrant staff in head office felt that they were the cinderellas of the department. That may have been true. My team reduced access to the translation unit, limiting this to immigrant arrivals who needed their documents translated. Previously, the service had been abused by the private sector. We then expanded the telephone interpreter service into certain country regions, and sought to make it a 24-hour service, again for the considerable benefit of immigrants. Those were progressive times for the nation.

As soon as I had completed these tasks, my Branch was split into two without warning, It left me with no position. The reason for this decision? None was given. As one on the margin, I could not expect even the courtesy of a cock-and-bull explanation. It was never-the-less an insulting way to treat me. Indeed, the afternoon before the split, I was actually interviewed for the allegedly vacant position I had been acting in for so long, and with such good results. The two interviewers, both heads of division, were ever so friendly and chatty. What treachery!

Since I had expected something devious from this tiny team of tribalists led by the fellow I can prove was racist, I too entered into the joviality of the charade. We were all such good friends! I am now satisfied that I was too high-profile for a blackfellow, too successful with extremely difficult tasks in my early days with the department, and of the wrong faith! This is a harsh judgement, but explicable were one to know these fellows.

Repeated re-structuring was, of course, the means whereby preferred peas were placed in powerful positions; or to get rid of someone who was not to be promoted.

My team, however, knew that we had achieved something few had ever done, or were capable of doing. Selecting immigrants, or dealing with staffing matters at PSB, is no substitute for policy experience. When I took over the Citizenship & Language Services Branch, I had to explain what an issue meant. I also showed how one decides on a policy recommendation, working through the options available to solve a problem or to achieve a desired particular objective; and then balancing the pros against the cons, including examining the financial and other costs involved. I received full support from all the staff within this broad Branch.

None of us were ever thanked by anyone for all our achievements. Indeed, for three years thereafter, my citizenship team's report was re-worked by different Division heads, some seeking to also impose their preferences. They especially wanted to re-introduce ministerial discretion, which I had denied. Such discretion is normally delegated to senior officers, thereby allowing scope for more flexible decisions at both levels. Some might call this corruption.

Two things worked in my favour. The expert team was not likely to change their stance, which we had collectively adopted. Much of our thinking was done on Saturday afternoons, such was our commitment. Better still, the then Minister did not want discretionary approvals of citizenship applicants. It was bad enough that immigration entry decisions were delegated to the departmental head. In one instance, a head approved, as a favour to a cocktail party connection, the entry of someone who did not qualify as either an immigrant or a refugee. At the end of the day, the revised Citizenship Act that was passed was substantially as my team had it initially. So said the last section head who had worked on it. He was also a man I respected. That was nice. Whilst I was unrecognized, I was personally satisfied. No more flat tyres or crevasses, I hoped

Then the head of management transferred me to the Refugees & Humanitarian Entry Branch as policy section head. There, the Branch head greeted me thus: "I did not ask for you." When I offered to leave, he said "You can stay." Within a week, I told him that the new Global Humanitarian Entry policy, which was to replace the current Middle Eastern entry policy, was inoperable. The look on his face would have frightened Genghis Khan. As approved by the Minister, I said, the new policy could be seen to allow entry to whole communities complaining optimistically about political persecution, eg. all the Christian Copts in Egypt, Jews in Syria, Christians in any of the Muslim nations in the Middle East, Baha'i in Iran and elsewhere, and possibly other minority communities such as the Kurds and Armenians.

Furthermore, all the reliable evidence available showed that only the Baha'i were subject to official persecution in the Middle East. All the other tribes and ethnic communities were doing well, according to their respective competencies, and living as free people. With seeming indifference, my chief told me to fix it. It would seem that my predecessor had dealt directly with an ex-PSB head of division. The Branch head in between was believed to be busy seeking to join UNHCR, the office of High Commissioner for Refugees, buttering up his contact in Foreign Affairs. Incidentally, he was back a year after he had achieved his objective. As UN bureaucrats were normally suave people, conducting themselves with integrity and dignity, I thought it curious that he was known by us as the Black Prince.

I re-wrote the new policy requiring assessment on a case-by-case basis. The Minister accepted it, complaining that he had only recently approved it. Did that say something about his attention span, intellect or memory? I implemented the new policy. My evaluation of the policy found that 80% of the entrants in the first nine months were Iranians from Pakistan, believed to be carpet merchants. Was this only human error? Australia now has many Oriental carpet sellers, with frequent 'closing down sale' signs. This shows the disproportionate value of achieving the status of refugee or humanitarian entrance on the one hand, and the benefit to the nation on the other.

There is a significant difference between a refugee and a humanitarian entrant (HE). A refugee is someone who has a genuine fear of official _persecution_ whilst outside his country of nationality. A HE is one who has a genuine fear of official _discrimination_ whilst outside his country of nationality. The persecution or discrimination feared has to be related to the person's politics, ethnicity, etc. An asylum seeker is one who can afford to enter Australia as a tourist or a family visitor, and who then claims to be in fear of return. A boat person, that is, an illegal entrant, is one who can afford to travel to Indonesia or another East Asian country on official documents, who then takes a boat to Australia without any papers. A few boats came directly with Vietnamese, Cambodian or Chinese illegal arrivals.

A claim of official persecution or discrimination, when an asylum seeker is already in Australia, legally or otherwise, is easy to make; but very difficult to disprove. Claimants for asylum will pretend that there is no safe region at all in their country of nationality, or that there is no other country with a similar culture that is accessible or available; not when there is a developed country within reasonable reach, with jobs, and family reunion on the horizon and possibly permanent welfare. If one has a child with a physical deformity or psychological infirmity, Australia's Medicare is a beacon.

It is most difficult to separate an economic refugee, that is, someone who simply wants a better life, from a genuine refugee or a HE. Cases on the margin of policy are generally decided in favour of the applicant. After a period, many an applicant who cannot prove his case nor have it rejected is permitted to stay. Not being able to repatriate them is, of course, part of the reality. The nation the asylum seeker left, eg. Indonesia, or the one which is his country of nationality, may be unwilling to allow re-entry. Allowing shonky claimants to remain in Australia encourages other optimists who seek to enter Australia by its back door. It could also result in an unending welfare burden on the nation.

Self-selected claimants for asylum or refugee status who reach Australian soil have so many avenues of legal appeal, at taxpayer cost, allegedly because of international conventions. That is, the claimants can lie as much as they like, but officialdom must behave honourably. It does not help the latter that there are so many well-meaning people in Australia who choose to assume, without cause or knowledge, that every applicant for asylum is in fact a genuine refugee. Any benefit of the doubt granted will automatically lead to an increased flow of asylum applicants. That does not seem to concern those who believe in charity, especially if paid for by others. Vociferous support from within Australia will include some who will personally benefit from favourable decisions.

In the meanwhile, there are applicants for refugee entry to Australia in a number of countries who will face delays in processing, and whose prospects for entry are diminished by those who fill their places from within Australia. For, the annual programs for entry are necessarily limited. Australia's capacity to accept refugees and asylum seekers who have a limited capacity to be integrated into our socio-economic community is also obviously limited. Difficulties in integration may reflect difficulty in learning English, limited employable skills, or difficulty in accepting Australia's social mores or institutional frameworks.

Any concession granted by Australia gets the tom-toms going immediately and loudly. Entry claims escalate. We learnt this explicitly with the Indo Chinese in refugee camps in South East Asia; then with the Poles living under Soviet hegemony. The East Timorese, Soviet Jews, Middle Easterners, Latin Americans, other East Europeans, Sri Lankan Tamils, white Russians, and others selected overseas under existing well-known policies did not pose the same pressure on selectors.

A policy can be closed and yet visas can be granted at overseas posts. White Russians who had settled well in China after the communist takeover of Russia (that is, a very, very long time ago) were coming in during the 1980s, long after that policy had been closed. Long after I had closed the East Timorese policy, which had erroneously permitted the entry of applicants residing in Portugal, their country of nationality, a large batch of young East Timorese was reportedly granted visas in Dili. The Soviet Jew policy was extended unofficially to take in those who had entered Israel but did not want to stay. On what basis could Australia accept those refugees or HE who had left their intended destination after arrival there?

The earlier Middle Eastern policy had proven a gateway for similarly political decisions. The Latin American policy, opened because an ALP immigration minister reportedly wanted left-wing refugees for a change, was extended beyond the Chileans escaping from the Allende regime, to Central Americans and other South Americans everywhere.

The East European policy, opened allegedly because a conservative government immigration minister wanted white right-wing refugees, for a change from the Indo- Chinese, was effectively an immigration entry policy. A special deal with the government of Poland and a very interested party in Australia allowed people living _within_ Poland, their country of nationality, to claim that they feared official discrimination! The Sri Lankan Tamils, on the other hand, received only a small window of opportunity. Did not religion have a role in the formulation, administration, and duration of these policies?

That is, refugee and HE policy is as much a political policy as it is a humanitarian one. The grant of residence to asylum applicants within Australia is a mish-mash of so many influences. The Australian populace at large seems to accept the need to relocate or consign to an offshore processing centre those who insist on inserting themselves illegally into Australia. They are, however, concerned at any extended delay in decision making, not realising that the problem commences with the asylum seeker.

Were the latter to be required to establish, that is, to prove who they are, and that they are genuine refugees, within (say) six weeks of arrival? It should not be Australia's responsibility to prove their identities and their claims. Might UNHCR then be required to re-locate failed claimants either to safe areas of their country of nationality, or to the last country of departure or to a country whose culture in congruous of that of the asylum seeker? The current delays bring opprobrium to Australia. The Australian taxpayer is also wasting scarce money in both the processing of claims, including seemingly unending legal costs, and in housing, feeding, medicating and educating the claimants. Were the illegal entrants, that is, the boat people or other asylum seekers, unable to establish that their claim to refugee status is consistent with UN definitions, why should the taxpayers' hard earned money be wasted on such opportunists?

Would rejection be not harsh? Of course! Life is harsh. However, it is important for Australia not to continue to be a beacon attracting those who will have difficulty in learning English or have no usable skills; that is, future welfare recipients of a permanent kind. The taxpayer bucket is indeed finite. Unlike certain Western nations, we should not seek to attract cheap labour through turning a blind eye to illegal entry.

It is also interesting to see how many of those who acquired residence rights in Australia as refugees return to visit, or trade with, or otherwise relate to the country which they had claimed to have left because of a genuine fear of official persecution or discrimination. Vietnam, Poland, and Afghanistan come to mind, based on hearsay or statements by those of their compatriots who have remained in Australia.

Policy work in a complex area is always interesting. However, the racist two steps above me had me sidelined to allow a fishing mate of his into my job in refugee policy. Then the Branch Head moved into his UNHCR post. His replacement opened his first meeting with his team leaders by saying that he had not attended Mass for quite a while, because he had been very busy at work. My two colleagues then said they too had not gone to Mass for a while but gave no reason. I had nothing to say, but the bonding was now in place. After a while, my life became so difficult that I asked senior management to move me.

That had me work for the other fishing mate of said racist. This fishing mate was yet another ex-PSB officer who had initially been ranked well below me but, instead, had a Branch created for him. So said the management people. I then spent a few years looking after migrant hostels during which time the number of hostels was reduced, on my recommendation, from thirteen to four.

This was, in part, because the then head of the agency said to me, in the presence of my boss, "Get rid of the Brits." Keeping them out also kept out all other non-refugee arrivals. Since the on-arrival support needed by an immigrant is bed and board, personal prejudice by one individual led to us reducing the support we had been giving to those we said we needed, the skilled immigrant. Family reunion entrants should have family to help them but, unsurprisingly, such assistance is often suddenly unavailable when the relatives arrive.

The emphasis on feather-bedding refugees led to blocks of flats being built at a tremendous cost to replace the hostels. But they were not popular. My racist boss, whose great idea this plan was, subsequently complained that I had not argued with him strongly enough against his idea. This was in spite of the fact that I had again been sidelined in favour of yet another preferred pea of his. Why should I, when I was walking on egg shells? It was all very demeaning, especially as everyone could see how I was being treated. However, I do not claim that my experience was in any way unique. Throughout all bureaucracies and in many workplaces, there must be employees being treated badly through petty prejudices. I merely point out how discrimination was consistently my bedmate; and how it strengthened me psychologically.

Then a strange thing happened. It would seem that my expertise in policy work was required, although I was clearly not going to be promoted. It was too late for me to change my religion. My ethnicity, (whatever that is) is obviously terminal. So every eighteen months or so, half of my area of responsibility would be passed onto another section head. Nothing was said to me as to why these changes occurred. A replacement half would be, for me, a new area of responsibility. By the time I retired, I had covered all the areas of policy on migrant settlement, except English language classes. Had my spirit guides had an influence in this matter? Obviously, I was now very knowledgeable about migrant settlement and related issues.

I found all this invigorating, for I need challenge. But, I was not silly enough to say that, ever. I examined each area of policy, which cost the taxpayer millions of scarce dollars, tightened procedures, and sought to have regional office chiefs contribute to answering those two key management questions. I could do no more than seek to influence their perspective.

I travelled across the nation in this process once a year, without too much interference, gaining insight into the service deliverers at the coal face, and the departmental administrators in our regional offices in each capital city. I met a sample of the settlement service recipients and, most importantly, the ethnic community leaders receiving funds for providing this settlement service. I sought to have installed the necessary record keeping practices to enable an evaluation of each service, but failed. We are too busy, everyone said.

During my evaluative sojourns, I also talked to each state government head office dealing with refugee minors. These youngsters had been sent out on refugee boats by some Indo-Chinese to act as 'anchors;' that is, to enable family reunion in Australia for the rest of the family at some later date. My casual observation is that this ploy has been very successful. There was also some reliable information of corruption in this process; of Vietnamese exploiting Vietnamese. Intra-ethnic community exploitation is surely commonplace. One must know intimately the nature and culture of those to be exploited, in order to be successful, especially when living in a foreign country with strange laws.

At one stage, two well-meaning Aussies, one of the clerical kind, sought to bring into Australia, as refugees, a number of East Timorese children studying in Jakarta. I asked both potential sponsors if they really understood what they wanted to do. Were the government to agree to their plan, what would be the rationale? That the children were being persecuted? But their parents were not? Who would look after the children in Australia? They were not orphans. They were obviously meant to be anchors.

This enquiry came long before the Howard government set out to consolidate its Roman Catholic vote by campaigning prematurely for an independent East Timor. This is a half-island, totally under-developed, whose limited infrastructure had been installed by the Indonesians over a quarter of a century, against the previous indifference by Portugal to the welfare of its colonial subjects. Portugal had done nothing for its possession before departing. After its departure, Australia accepted as humanitarian entrants a significant number of East Timorese, whose capacity to integrate into Australia seemed to be limited. This policy attracted East Timorese who had left the island a long time before, and who were living securely in other countries. We rejected these but accepted, quite erroneously, those living in their country of nationality, Portugal.

After an examination of the issues, the plan to seek entry for the East Timorese minors studying in Jakarta was dropped, although the cleric intending sponsor grumbled a bit. He should now be happy that the new nation is a protectorate of Australia, costing us substantial funds. An intriguing aspect of this new nation is that there seem to be significant tribal differences among the Malay populace; the nation's official language is Portuguese, seemingly the preferred language of the mestizos in power; and the lack of improvement in the life chances of the people at large. Does not the largest democracy in the world, India, display similar characteristics, the bottom line being that the poor do not benefit from both the democratic process and any economic development? As the designated Deputy Sheriff for our part of the world, we do need the big shoulders and deep pockets that we have.

As part of my job, I also negotiated with a couple of local governments councils for the provision, under contract, of recreation services at some migrant hostels. In this context, it was most disappointing to find that a hostel manager would not trust either a resident or a welfare worker with the key to the recreation room which held the TV set, when the soccer World Cup was on. All migrants and refugees are soccer mad. I arranged for the key to be held by a committee. A better manager was the nice man who ordered hallal meat when officially advised that Baha'i Iranians had been allocated to his hostel. He even had an imam waiting. The Baha'i not being Muslims, said manager then rang me to ask me what he should do with the meat. My reply was that, as the meat had been blessed, it was worthy of consumption by one and all.

In this context it was good to see Polish chefs (they all seemed to be Polish) learning to cook Vietnamese food. Yet, as I personally observed, most of the Vietnamese preferred a cold salad lunch, with plenty of sliced meat and cheeses. How sensible! It was also interesting to hear that, in less than a year after arrival, these Poles, who seemed to have large families, would resign and reportedly go onto welfare. Employment did not pay much more than welfare, it was claimed.

The most caring in our hostels were the generally unqualified but motherly childcare workers. Although we could not always match the languages of the residents (then Vietnamese, Polish and Chilean, in the main) with the languages spoken by these ladies, the love they displayed obviously satisfied both children and parents. I used to take visitors to see the children at play in the hostels, to show them the future of Australia. Whilst the little ones could not talk to one another, but played side by side and not always amicably, the older ones would talk to one another somehow, sharing toys. Absolutely heart warming!

The refugees, whether opportunistic or genuine, like immigrants everywhere, were grateful that we cared for their welfare. And they displayed a tremendous resilience in coping with a strange land. When the Hmong people organised a gathering in Melbourne and later the Vietnamese organized their Moon Festival, I was most impressed by their abilities, and the skills displayed in tapping into those Anglo-Aussies who sought to help. That is why the CRSS program, involving members of an Aussie community assisting in the re-settlement of appropriately selected refugees, was so successful; as was the earlier Good Neighbour Council program.

There was one hiccup, in Alice Springs. There a Catholic Anglo-Aussie community found the Chileans we had placed with them were a lot more effervescent, more pre-occupied with freedom, and therefore less conservative than they had expected. But it was all sorted out soon. When the Chileans, seemingly from all over Australia, got together in Canberra with a music group known as Inti-Illimani, the roof of the auditorium was almost blown off by the enthusiasm of the freedom-loving refugees and their supporters. The atmosphere was fabulous, as I can personally testify.

Having served the government's Ethnic Affairs Advisory Committee with some success, I felt that I had a reasonable chance of selection to the position of head of the Ethnic Affairs Commission of South Australia and, later, of Western Australia. Whilst departmental support might have been lacking, if not negative, I had five ethnic communities in each state supporting me as I went to my interviews. Shortly after I missed out with both applications, I discovered that a new position of deputy had been created in each Commission, and an experienced outsider was transferred into them. Presumably the deputies had the qualifications I offered in research, policy and administration. I would not have received an extra dollar had I been appointed, but I wanted the challenge. However, state parochialism had to prevail.

Then I became lucky. I had a new boss, a proven administrator from outside the public service. In his presence, I told the racist politely that one day he would be judged for what he had done to me. No reply; no further problem. My finger pointed to the sky may have convinced him that we are not unobserved. Yet, this fellow had trusted me to carry out negotiations with Qantas to obtain discount fares for the refugees we shipped with the airline.

A little later, this new boss said to me "You are frightening the shit out of your peer group." I said that I was pleased. He then said, "How is it that you are frightening the shit out of _my_ peer group?" Seeing me smile with inner satisfaction, he asked for an explanation. I told him how I had been ranked number two when I arrived years back, with a clear promise of promotion to branch head. With the change of departmental head and the rise to power of the ex-PSB lads, in spite of my three major achievements, a large number of those ranked below me had been promoted above me. The officer initially ranked above me had subsequently risen to division head, the step above branch head. So, I had simply raised the quality and rate of my output to what I knew could not be matched by them, ever! I did have proven research, policy, and managerial skills from agencies led by very able and fair men.

I had a reliable yardstick by which to assess my own competence. Quite a number of my former colleagues, regarded as competent, when I had passed by on my way to Director level and to temporary higher duties, subsequently rose to head of division level in a number of departments. I knew then that that was my own level of competence. Anyway, the dogs may show their teeth, but my caravan rode on equably, its occupant protected by his own competence, and his non-aggressive demeanor, perhaps in the style of Gandhi.

A little later, the fellow who had not gone to Mass recently became my boss again in yet another area. Who said that lightening cannot strike the same place twice? He was believed to be gay, but that was of no concern to me. One of my best officers was a gay who had been selected by me and the chairman of NAATI; he had come to be with his partner. The new boss had me sidelined pretty soon, put his preferred pea in my chair, and attempted to run with an idea of mine. They failed to convince the Minister. Tough! Just what they deserved. Attempting to change policies is a delicate process requiring great subtlety in approach, especially when the Minister is mindful of the relative influence of the diverse ethnic communities. Hence, the squeaky wheel continued to get the grease. But I remained sidelined.

Soon, in response to what I considered to be an intimidating move by this boss, I refused to talk to him. Unfortunately for him, he then came up with an idea which I knew from experience to be good. All the way to the top of the department and further out, his plan was rejected at successive meetings, in spite of my support. I said that the plan was workable and useful, thereby placing him in my debt. Not trusting him, at sixty, I retired. I had had enough of the petty tribal-cohesion tactics which were primarily self-seeking but also seemed intended to denigrate me in passing.

It was a strange feeling to feel secure in my competence, my track record being undeniably impressive, but to have to watch my back all the time. Competence, and a high-profile performance, seemed a curse. Was I expected to behave like the traditional blackfellow of yore, keeping his eyes down whilst awaiting a handout? What was the intended cosmic lesson for one born a 'dragon'? That a lotus blooms only because its feet is mired in muddy sludge?

Working with poor quality departmental heads who had promoted second-raters, surviving petty behaviour, and denied equality of opportunity, was none-the-less a useful learning experience. For, life is for learning, is it not? I had indeed learnt a great deal about Australia, my new home, through my work. Understanding our balance of payments, the economy in general, our manufacturing sector, other sectors subject to foreign ownership or control, the management of these industries, the ways of the legal profession, as well as policies on migrant settlement, citizenship and refugees allowed me to write. My experience-based narratives, analysis and commentary, commencing with the White Australia era, have been accepted as facets of Australia's history, by friends and academics alike. I am obviously happy about that. That I began to write as a consequence of a significant psychic experience can now be told. I have done what I was asked to do.

The breakdown of my second marriage had led to two wheels of my life-chances cart rolling off into the distance, whilst the 'tribals' had loosened the nuts on the remaining wheels. But I had managed to bring the vehicle to a safe stop at the end of the road. I now looked forward to living in peace, probably alone, with necessary frugality. Perhaps I should take some comfort from that aphorism "He who never suffers will not become a Buddha." But I am not very good at sitting on my bottom.

There might be other avenues to explore before I take off into the blue yonder.

During the near four decades of my life in Australia until retirement, Australia matured somewhat as a nation. Its people joined the rest of an ethnically diverse mankind. Yet, it has a black spot, of significant magnitude, on its underbelly that it has to eradicate.

To elaborate: We now show some respect to some of our neighbouring coloured nations. We have no fear of the yellow hordes of old, but neither trust nor like Muslim nations. We provide succour to the smaller neighbours, in spite of their peoples' lifestyles and life chances remaining as poor as ever. That may reflect our long-term security needs.

We are increasingly multi-ethnic, and with a reduced emphasis on maintaining cultural differences as some sort of icon or as an indicator of ethnic superiority. Racial intolerance, especially based on an outworn colonial arrogance or an indefensible ignorance of the viability of the major religions of the world, has diminished most significantly. My grandchildren's generation will simply not understand the values of White Australia, colonialism, religious superiority, and other symptoms of tribal prejudice and discrimination.

Yet, equal opportunity for all will take a little while to be achieved. The ethos of the traditional 'fair-go', which applied once only to white British people, will prevail, as it seems to be ingrained into the psyche of the Anglo-Aussie worker. I mean no disrespect to my fellow immigrants, but it does take a while for an equalitarian concept to become a way of life, and to infuse societal behaviour.

The indigenes need guiding to viability in the cosmopolitan complex that is the new Australia. Were the younger generation to continue to say "What's the use?" (of seeking equitable treatment in job opportunities), and to become angry at (white) Australian authorities and policies, social disruption can be expected to increase. Postures and actions, ranging from recalcitrance to aggression, may be of such a nature as _not_ to add to the disproportionate number of indigenes in gaol.

Some of the indigenes need emancipation from a chosen desert-based lifestyle. Most of them could never have been exposed to a hunter-gatherer lifestyle in the desert. In the history of mankind, human settlement arose in locations which offered some scope for viable economic activities. Planting Aboriginal settlements without an economic base in the middle of nowhere, and expecting others to provide sustenance and material support is fanciful! It is not appropriate compensation for the depredations of yore by the white founding fathers of the nation.

The recent tendency to assert individual rights, to be selfish in demanding increasing amounts of cash and material goods, will be diminished as world economies tighten their belts. Life promises to become as painful as it was in earlier times. Thus reality will prevail, for there is not enough wealth for all to be satisfied. Gaia, Earth's mother spirit, might also decide to protect her domain. We might not like that.

When I retired, I was burnt out, but yet optimistic. For, there is something strange about my adopted nation. It seems to be on its way to be the nation of the future, because it is essentially egalitarian. Yet, it is an integral component of the Ultra-West based on individualism, rather than on extended family and on community. The mutual-responsibility paradigm of those whose values are based on family and community can be contrasted with the imperatives of individual rights, which do not entail mutual responsibilities. Indeed, rights are proliferating exponentially; they seem to be plucked out of the air. Individual rights! Oi! Oi! Oi!

As for the ultimate integration of immigrants into a cohesive Australian people, I expect that new national icons will evolve, to reflect our ethno-cultural diversity and the contribution we, the immigrants, are making to change this nation for the better. However, there are major societal problems to be overcome before all that.

To societal alienation

I was burnt out when I retired, not because of the situation at work, but because my wife had left me. I did not want the stress working under yet another ruthless rat whilst seeking to recover my wife. As I departed, I did shake him by the hand and wish him well. I did advise him to rely purely on his evident ability, and not to behave improperly. I promised him, as I had that racist, that I would cause him no harm, if only to protect the Department. Against great odds, it is doing a good job.

I spent an inordinate effort on getting my wife back. Ultimately, after a number of years of going and coming, we parted. The end of the marriage was read by a reliable clairvoyant, long before I realised it would happen. It was already written on the paths of our planets.

I did wonder again as to what or who the influences were driving us thus. The only outcomes of such a dance between my wife and myself were a sad combination of confusion, psychological despair, and great financial loss.

Some years later, my wife divorced me. There was no way I could have saved my marriage. I lost my family home and a lot of my retirement money. Through in-laws who do not seem to understand the Asian values of cohesion of the extended family, as well as the associated respect for one's elders, I find myself a little distant from my grandchildren, in spite of the mutual warmth and love that clearly exists. Perhaps it is the Cosmos telling me to divest myself of all attachments, both human and material. For an Asian, the former is impossible.

Yet, I continue to offer protection to the mother of my children. I have also helped to look after my grandchildren when needed. That is the Asian way. I am also one of those men who will willingly kill to protect their family. I am, of course, an Australian in day-to-day living. What else could I be, after living as an adult for sixty years in a highly interactive and societally contributory manner in this country? Yet my values are Asian. I share these values with the societies of continental Asia, parts of the Mediterranean lands, and many other European communities. Our values will, I am sure, outlive the individualism of the migrant-created nations I refer to as the Ultra-West. Financial support by an impersonal state, where this is available, with faceless bureaucratic intermediaries, is no substitute for the socio-cultural support of family and community. Naturally, such support has to be reciprocal.

When my wife first left, none of our friends rang me. I was too embarrassed to ring them. When she returned, I gathered some Malaysian friends. We formed a more cohesive social group, as is the Malaysian way. The Hindu Indian and Ceylon Tamil families never seemed to be comfortable with mixed marriages, especially of the white with brown variety. On a couple of occasions, my wife, the only white person present, would find the women speaking in Hindi or Tamil. They could all speak English well. This may not reflect prejudice; only that their core of 'common' had not been over-run by education. When my wife again left, none of the Malaysians rang me.

I was finally saved from my desolation. An old family friend, now divorced, introduced me to a group of people I describe as semi-detached. Most of them were separated from their spouses. Frenetic as most of the members were in seeking psychic peace through casual friendships at weekly gatherings, the prevailing mood ranged from loneliness with sadness, to anger with bitterness. I was grateful for the support available in the group. It also gave me an opportunity to observe critically the increasing breakdown of marriage, and its tragic consequences for children, and for society at large.

Marital separation and divorce wrecks one's finances. So, who pays for the drinks at these gatherings of the semi-detached? The older woman tended to display her customary role of being attended to. Buying such a person a drink could, on the other hand, lead to misunderstandings as to one's intent. I was guided by my good friend. She had successfully off-loaded her husband; kept the family home because she had a teenager underfoot; given up her job; and got on to the 'widow's pension.' She had a great, although frugal, life. From time to time, she picked a bedmate casually, as one might pick a plum from an accessible tree. She allowed herself to be seen to be seduced. She ensured that she was sustained at a level she decided suitable. After a while, she spat out the pip!

She reminded me of some of the women in the new gender-free, but not necessarily sex-free, equal opportunity scene in the public service. Although on equal or higher pay than the men they drank with at the departmental happy-hour, they often had to have their wallets dragged out of their briefcases. Equal opportunity led some of these ladies to adopt jackets with shoulder pads of substantial width. Yet, skirts remained mid-thigh, bosoms were sometimes pointed to the heavens, and their make-up and coiffure were comparable to that of certain ladies dawdling at certain street corners. But I digress. The semi-detached women I met could not afford similar sartorial and cosmetic elegance.

As for the men, overlaying the prevailing sadness of separation and some anger at deception or rejection, there was a terrible bitterness displayed by some. These were to become members of the fathers' movement, dedicated to securing adequate contact with their children. They were not to know, in some cases, that not all their children had been fathered by them. Bitter wives, aided by quaint edicts of the Family Court, and the savagery of that body responsible for ensuring that separated fathers paid for the upkeep of their children, kept them near boiling point.

The payments required seemed to be vindictively harsh. It was a fraction of _gross_ income. No allowance was made for taxation and superannuation payments that need to be made. Worse still, in a recent case, a man was required to pay for the up-keep of proven cuckoos in his former nest. When such payments left the men impecunious, whilst contact with their children was either limited or denied, many were reported to have stopped working and to have gone on the dole, and to live in poverty. Some are reported to have suicided. Who benefits from such official draconian policies?

The Family Court, for all it pretensions and protestations, could not ensure fair treatment of the fathers. Because of the Court's no doubt carefully considered decisions, a friend of mine, whose wife had taken off with a lover, leaving her teenage children behind, was, as he put it, "cleaned out financially." His barrister explained that the treatment he received was derived from Family Court decision; there was no point in contesting his ex-wife's claims. So, infidelity can be rewarding!

Thus, these matters raise major issues about society. Who looks after the psychological _needs_ of the children in families split by the divergent _wants_ of the parents? What sort of society will finally emerge from the morass of marriages entered into with no long term commitment; from the increasing number of single-parent families lacking the influence of the male role model; from the lack of any exposure to intra-family tensions which normally teach children to cooperate with, and to concede to, one another; from the lack of long term contact with grandparents, who might be able to provide better perspectives for living, or guidance in looking after one's children; and from the lack of the 'structured rituals' normally prevailing in intact families living normally?

That is, to eat together; to talk to one another during mealtimes and times of relaxation; to share the tasks in maintaining the home; to note gender differences and respective roles; to become aware of the lives of parents at work and at home; etc. How else would children learn about the role of society, the place of family within it, and its contribution to the families and to the society of the future?

Since governments are ultimately responsible of the future of society, one needs to question whether they and their agencies have any idea as to the feelings of the children denied the on-going love and day-to-day care of both parents caused by the self-seeking decisions by one or both parents.

Why does all this concern me? Because of my grandchildren. What sort of society will they inherit? Can we, the experienced members of society, ensure that their inheritance is adequate, if not rich? The quality of life is surely more important than the quantities associated with materiality.

The view expressed by some feminist that it is violence that denies the separated fathers adequate contact with their children is countered by some data which I came across. This stated that 75% or so of marital separations were initiated by the women; and that about 54% of these gave no reason for their decision other than "did not get along", and "not compatible." One might wonder whether these women then proceeded to grant their children adequate contact with their fathers.

When the Family Court grants the mothers the care of the children in split families, it seems to recognise that it is the mother who normally nurtures it. But, does that hold invariably true today? A mother working fulltime in her career, with her baby in institutional care, does not fit this idealised scenario. Some women are awful mothers, for various reasons. Some women want the fathers to nurture their children in tandem. Would they also want to share financial responsibilities as equals? Could there be a gender war underlying some female stances? Could one also speculate that a segment of a generation of emancipated women is fighting the memories of their fathers? In the event, why not live in the present, and construct, through dialogue, appropriate arrangements for the future?

As for adherence to out-dated positions, even when the children preferred to stay with their father, the Court has been reported to grant custody to the mother. The Court has been reported to have other quaint views. It has not, reportedly, ensured equitable access to fathers when the mothers have denied agreed access. It will accept, as will magistrates, an allegation that a father has threatened violence, without any evidence or investigation. This can destroy the father's livelihood, and damage him in other ways.

The Court has also claimed that it reflects community values; that is, what the community _expects_. How on earth does it discover that? Even if it had some mystical way of reading a community's mind, which sector of the community will it tap into? Will the lowest common denominator criterion apply; that is, will it be the values of the lowest socio-economic sector of society?

Most quaint of all: when cuckoos in the nest are said to be not infrequent, the Court apparently requires the wife to agree to any DNA test which might prove her infidelity. Is this a new principle of policing – a person suspected of a crime has to agree to be investigated? Do the alleged rights of an individual over-ride the needs of a fair and just society?

There seem to be so many fatherless children around. Do the little ones ever get used to the absence of their father? I have experienced very small children, accompanied by their mothers, reaching out to me in the shops, in the streets and at the beach. Could I speculate that these little ones were missing their fathers? Do the freshly-coined rights of adults in a breakdown of marriage, riding on the shoulders of the sanctity of individual freedom in the nations of the Ultra-West, result in children whose feelings and psychological needs are substantially ignored?

Perhaps it is time to consider seriously some reliable findings. First, in intact families, displaying the usual levels of minor to moderate stress or conflict (generally temporary or short term), the children need less psychological help than children whose parents are separated, divorced or re-married. Second, the joint influence of two parents is more than the influence of one parent. Third, it is the intact family structure and family-based cultural traditions which have greater impact on educational outcomes than class sizes, school facilities, or teacher salaries. In this context, I tend to accept scholars like Francis Fukuyama or psychiatrists such as Karl Menninger as more reliable than single-mother journalists or academics.

My own experience, in both an under-developed country and a developed nation, supports the first of the above findings. The single child tends to be spoilt. The second finding is surely self-evident; the guidance and control offered by both natural parents acting in unison is better nuanced. The third is a research finding which is beyond the challenge of casual observers.

There are also other significant issues arising from broken families. What, if any, is the role of grandparents, even if they are normally kept at arm's length with intact families? With blended families, presumably formed to meet the wants of adults, how is discipline achieved? Even in the context of everyone in the community being addressed familiarly and with little or no overt respect, by their first names, what is the form of address for a new dad or mum? Can there be impartiality within such a family, or does each parent favour their own? Is there not evidence of some teenage girls being targeted sexually by their new father? Do not teenagers in blended families leave home prematurely? Have not men in low income families been known to be violent towards the children of their partners? Will young people enter marriage or co-habit with trust in their spouses or partners as long term companions? In raising these questions, I am also reflecting the views of many of the senior citizens I have met.

Reliable research evidence apparently suggests that the radius of trust in the community is being reduced, because of society being beset with broken marriages, reflecting individual adult rights being exercised unilaterally. Violent, sexual or otherwise physical, adultery, and cuckoos in the nest are not new phenomenon. Walking out of a marriage, to the detriment of children, in increasing numbers, is new. All this is disastrous to the future of society. Is modern society becoming less civilised? It is also damaging to the peace of mind of children. As Kahlil Gibran, the Lebanese philosopher said, "Your children are not your children. They are Life's longing for itself.?"

The above picture of rising social alienation forms the backdrop to other forms of alienation. As my nuclear family experienced it, without extended family, we created our social life with friends in workplaces and in civil society (that is, with fellow volunteers); we fed one another too. Other people relied upon the more impersonal clubs and hotels; for them, home entertainment gave way to eating out together, going 'dutch'. Mutual responsibility is thus minimal. Babies and young children became farmed out to childcare centres; and thus missed out on looking around the streets and parks and asking a million questions; and then telling their own vision of what they saw.

Old people, like me, live alone. About 30% of the nation's senior citizens fend for themselves. This is expected of us. I have seen in my district an elderly woman cutting her lawn with a power mower whilst using a walking frame! The younger generation, mostly represented by two-income families, are too busy to be involved. They are so confident about their status and knowledge that they tend to ignore any advice that an elderly parent might foolishly give. So, one sees tiny babies with heads uncovered in the hot sun, under a blue sky with a large ozone hole. Screaming in public gets the cunning child what it wants. Many parents have little idea about controlling their children effectively in public places. They either address the children in the manner of an American Secretary of State talking to foreign ministers in, say, Central Asian nations, or shout ineffectively at them.

In this context, if a teenager decides to leave home, the appropriate responsible government agency will apparently not inform the parents as to the known whereabouts of the teenager. Teenagers can divorce their parents. Soon, human beings might act together more in the manner of a pack of dogs running together, but each acting independently according to individual whims, rather than as a unified team.

Such societal deterioration necessarily touches everyone. Government policies cunningly induce an increasing reliance on the state. Bureaucrats in agencies ranging from the national security service; to police; to service provisions of all kinds; to regulating all manner of activities, commercial and otherwise; to inspecting nursing homes for the aged; etc. dominate, if they do not control, our lives. Data in public agencies are cross-linked giving greater rights to officialdom than imagined possible, and greater than our individual freedoms and rights. Yet, we are free to rail at any wailing wall that we can find.

The banks and other major enterprises make whopping profits, exploiting every legal loophole, and our gullibility. There is nothing new here. As most of us eat well, all is well. Materiality has superseded spirituality. The state, not God, will provide. What is not provided will be taken, as demonstrated by the CEOs of our major corporations, whose take is obscene. That foreigners own or control most of our most important industries does not concern us. That a foreign government decides our foreign policies, including whom we fight, does not touch us, as few bodybags arrive from foreign soil.

We may be living in a fool's paradise. That is why the economically unviable from all over the world seek to share our paradise. This seems to be the only country in the world in which every person is guaranteed an income. As two Vietnamese refugees once said; "You Aussies f...ing stupid; you give money for nothing." Those who have financial difficulties are, by and large, either mentally incapable or financially irresponsible. That is, all of us could eat well. So, what's the problem?

There is, however, a surprisingly large army of volunteers helping their fellow residence. In my district, most of the volunteers are senior citizens. In spite of some silliness in attempted displays of self-importance, we work well together. This community spirit, overlaying a basal ethos of the 'fair-go' kind, even if upheld by only a minority of the population, will provide that rock of stability against the rising waves of self-centredness that is equally evident.

My concern is with this self-centredness; with a diminution of morality; with a loss of personal respect, accompanied by verbal crudity; and with opportunism without reciprocity. After retirement, I worked as a casual poorly paid lowly petrol station attendant, providing driveway service at night. I did this to subsidise my son's university studies. My retirement income was inadequate. Indeed, I am poorer year by year. In that job, in which I was once held up at the point of a knife, I was the only one at work in the whole township at that time of the night. I also met a cross-section of society, all of whom saw me correctly as one with no status. Therefore, everyone including the police and some criminals, talked to me freely. I saw the takers and users as never before. I came to worry about the society in which my grandchildren would live.

That is, the Australia of the first decade of the new millennium is not the Australia I entered sixty years ago. Then, ignoring the prevailing residual racism, the silly fear of coloured nations, the imagined superiority of each of the Christian sects against one another and all the other faiths, whilst upholding a lot of puritanical wowserism, there was a basal respect for what could correctly be described as human rights. These rights encompassed the legal and social rights enjoyed by free but responsible citizens. Excluding those either under the thumbs of their priesthoods or willing to respect their injunctions, the Australian people displayed a great sense of community respect, whilst asserting personal dignity.

It was only in the 1960s and 1970s that we gained full civic and individual rights, viz. the right to deal, or not, with the Universal Creator, or other chose substitutes; the right to share with fellow residents the gifts of Nature; the right to think, speak and write freely, but subject to some quaint restrictions referred to as defamation; the right to move freely and to act freely. Australia then became a relatively liberal nation.

The societal problem now is that it is too liberal as regards the expression of asserted individual rights, without adequate regard to the rights and welfare of others; that is, without an adequate sense of communal responsibility. I refer to public binge drinking and public partying by teenagers, which implies that parents have no control over their children; the sexual freedom sought by many adults within marriage, thus diminishing the rights of their children to a stable family life; the rorting of the welfare system by the wealthy aged and others; the greed of big business, including the banks; and the diminution of democracy by politicians. Rights over-ride responsibilities.

These rights mentioned above are, however, not the political fiction of modern times applied to other nations. The latter human rights, which do include the right to free speech, refer primarily to the so-called democratic process which allows all the enfranchised to exercise a vote, and then to be forgotten. That process is, of course, intended to break up, to do away with, and bury, any tribal leadership. The only tribe allowed in a Western democracy is the political party. In such a party, leadership can be bought, unlike tribal leadership. The latter is a matter mainly of history, loyalty, consanguinity (perhaps), and is therefore not as intransient as the political party leadership we know so well. Whether developing neighbouring nations accept the Western view of capitalistic democracy is a moot point. Indeed powerful nations show that they can grow fast through capitalistic modernisation and industrialisation, allied to authoritarian control with surface democracy.

The Australia of old, however, showed respect to individuals when it was due. There was a greater respect for the collective, one's society. Behavioural standards were high, congruent with my family's moral standards. That is, the Australia of old did subscribe to much of the Asian values about what constitutes good societal behaviour.

Where goes the nation now? I do not know. If my understanding of Destiny is correct, then our collective future has already been decided by our predecessors, and is being shaped by us. It is not a comforting thought. Indeed, did not Edgar Cayce, the clairvoyant, say "Nations, like people, have karma, and must pay for past crimes against brother nations"? As for Destiny, he supports my own view, which is derived from the Upanishads. He said "... every individual follows out that line of development... in the present earth plane, as it has been carried from the preceding conditions, and each grain of thought or condition is a consequence of other conditions created by self."

However, as ever, I remain optimistic. I believe intuitively that this nation of mine can become a guiding beacon to neighbouring nations. In this belief, I rely upon that innate instinct in most of us to consider our fellow man. It needs awakening in some, in many places. That is where the Anglo-Celt's 'fair-go' ethos can tweak our collective consciousness. When Gaia smacks us down for our greed, when the Cosmos then makes us realise that the collective must eventually prevail, then my hope may be achieved. That may take a little time.

### Chapter 6

ULTIMATE REALITY

On not knowing when one is beaten.

This is all very well, but one of the first

businesses of a sensible man is to know

when he is beaten, and to leave off

fighting at once.

\- Samuel Butler (1835-1902)

Free from my demeaning and insecure life at work for more than half a decade at the end of my career; and adjusting as best I could to the destabilising personal and financial effects of a broken marriage; and its impacts on the coherence of family and friends; I had both time and opportunity to ponder the lessons available from my strangely turbulent life. What was I supposed to have learnt? More relevantly, what had I learnt?

The answer to the latter was easy: to keep climbing out of the holes I fall into, especially the ones I knew were not there; to avoid being upset by people who will not allow me equal opportunity for tribal or religious or cultural reasons; and to focus on where we will all go after the turmoil and tribulations of life on Earth. That led me to take my mind away from the self-centred myopia, the pre-occupation with promoting personal interests, and the operational focus on the immediate that characterises most human behaviour, and to think more clearly than ever about existence on a cosmic scale, and its significance.

As one born into a Hindu family and community, I had been taught that life on Earth is but a brief interlude in a span of existence which is as long as needed to qualify for the return of one's soul to that Cosmic home base. There was nothing in my experiences or learning since then to challenge that perspective. In truth, it was this belief which had upheld me whilst I was buffeted from time to time by the rough seas generated by my Destiny.

When I read social psychology during my university course, I had found myself seductively drawn into the study of the simpler or early societies. There I found that all humanity, both historically and across inhabited terrain, has always sought to explain and understand the cosmos it experienced, and its place in it. The diversity and the durability of the explanations was not as important to me as the indomitable need it displayed to know. I too wanted to know, but through my own search.

Thus occurred a major transformation in my outlook on life. The fellow who, in anger, had only relatively recently shaken his fist skyward saying "To hell with you" (with no effect, of course) began to look at the beliefs of mankind. They were multifarious. Many were mystical, thought-provoking. Many were simpler, indeed quaint. I liked the one which claimed that the universe rests on the back of a turtle. Since turtles are not that huge, in my youth I envisaged the universe wobbling on a pin-point or, for greater stability, resting on a tripod. I also liked the response given by philosopher Bertrand Russell when he was asked what the turtle stood on. "Its turtles all the way down" (or words to that effect). I wondered why turtles appeared in so many of the Cosmic beliefs of peoples living near or at the sea.

A German anthropologist then told me that there is a discernable pattern in the explanations arrived at by earlier societies. Those who had lived on mountain tops throughout the world had similar explanations, he said. The coastal societies had explanations which were similar to one another, but different from those sited at higher elevations. Does the way I think about something then depend upon where I am? Is that why I was 'hijacked' to the Land of Oz? Just an irrelevant thought: does the spirit world indulge in what was once known as blackbirding, the hijacking of Polynesians (the Kanakas) from the Pacific to slavery in Australia? I jest!

So, even as I was losing a bit of sleep through my university course, I began to read about the major religions. In a while I realised that there has to be a Creator to explain the complexity and beauty of the experienced world. The observable but inadequately explicable, and the exceedingly complex patterns of inter-linked cause and effect, action and reaction, and the inter-dependencies of the physical, chemical and electro-magnetic forces that affect all life makes sense were one to accept that they could not have occurred by chance, but reflect the heart and mind of a Creator.

That is, the uniformity, the invariability, the predictive capacity of the laws of nature suggest that they could not have occurred randomly, by chance. I have read that six numbers or ratios determine the coherence of the universe as we know it. A slight variation in any one of these would result in a different universe, with different laws. Add to this the beauty of the universe. There has to be a Creator behind all this.

As I write this, I am mindful of an extra-ordinary sight. On damp grass and leaves in my front yard, there lie tiny spheres of moisture. A very, very light breeze moves the grass and leaves ever so slightly, in an uncoordinated manner. The bright early morning autumn sun causes some of the spheres to glisten brightly. Sparkles emanate from different spheres randomly. As Earth rotates, the sun's rays are split by these bubbles of moisture to produce fragments of the spectrum of the rainbow. It is a rewarding vision.

It is also an un-choreographed dance across my lawn and garden. An aural backdrop to this dance is being provided by the many beautiful rainbow lorikeets which normally adorn my trees for part of each day. Other less beautiful birds also perform vocally, sometimes stridently, as their temperament decides. All of them dine well on the nectar of my flowers.

Could all these reflect the results of random events? I am a rational person, with no time for superstitious beliefs. Evolution, cosmic catastrophes affecting this process, and possibly some extra-terrestrial intrusion into the development of the human species having been allowed for, I believe that all this is a reflection of God's gift to those of us puny humans who seek to be in tune with the rest of Creation. As I have said earlier, all that the Creator had to do was to set up a mechanism, capable of evolving by itself as it relates to the sentient forms which too evolve. Some of these will, no doubt, evolve further, particularly spiritually; that is, to understand whence they came; and why they are here.

The ecological balance between mobile and fixed forms of life, as well as that intuitive yearning by sensitive souls for communion with forces not understood clearly but keenly felt also makes sense were they to reflect the soul of the Creator.

Of significance here is that there is clear evidence of purpose within the complexity and apparent unpredictability of life, akin to the stability of patterns found within chaos. There also seems to be a uni-directional path of species evolution and personal development. As well, developments in human life seem to imply an orientation towards pre-determined ends. All this is too complex to have occurred by chance. I like the idea of the soul of the Creator being involved in the development and progress of our souls.

Further, I question whether the complexity of the Cosmos could have just occurred, or sprung from, a so-called Big Bang. To the ancient Hindus or their antecedents, the universe is created anew every 8,640 billion years. That is, its existence and operation is cyclical. Given the possibility of other universes, which might also be different from one another, it would be strange to argue that no creation need be involved.

Of course, believers in a Creator cannot prove their case. The disbelievers cannot prove that a Creator does not exist. How does one prove that something is not there, when someone says that it is there? The atheists' belief in chance is akin to my belief in a Creator, but seems to be somewhat barren on the outside and empty on the inside. Is ego involved in their stance that the universe and its components, with their complexity and inter-relationships, just happened?

I also find it strange that those upholding the methodology of science, a relatively recently discovered process, cannot accept its limitations. Since the processes of science are interpreted through our limited senses and our minds, how can we claim to know all there is to be known? Psychic phenomena need different tests. Can the modern philosopher hope to over-ride the speculative conclusions of the philosophers of old, who go back many thousands of years? Can the youth of any era successfully prove that they know more and think more clearly than their elders and other ancestors? Modernity and recency guarantee nothing.

Again, according to the Upanishads, the human mind (the processor used by our five senses) is only an instrument of consciousness, not an independent entity in itself.

I reached these conclusions by the time I was thirty. Further reading and thinking led me to another conclusion. An indefatigable moral instinct which manifests itself in children soon after birth, and retained by the more sensitive souls in the community also suggest to me that God has to be both transcendent and imminent. That is, it is the presence of our Creator God within each of us that inspires us to reach out to one another. Have we all not observed very young children autonomously display a sense of fairness, indeed a sense of justice, in their play, and in their relations with their parents and siblings? The Upanishads, which I discovered late in life, lend confirmation to this perspective.

The re-born human soul seems to bring into each new existence not only what it must have learnt in its previous lives on Earth, but also its recent life between lives in that Recycling Station. A primordial sense of belonging to a collective may always be an underlay to this knowledge. This sense could eventually expand to understand that ultimate collective, which arises from, and reflects, the Ocean of Consciousness.

My spasmodic memory of fragments of what seem to be my past lives; my enduring pre-occupation with certain geographical areas of Central Asia; certain inexplicable instincts relating to freedom and justice, including a willingness to fight on behalf of self and my residential community; these can be explained only by a soul with memory. The over-riding sense about the value of the collective may, of course, be partly conditioned in one's youth. A search for the path home, and possibly for that which was lost, explains my educational travel as a Seeker.

During the next decade, I realised that, in spite of the apparent differences avowed by their respective priesthoods, who are not necessarily educated or knowledgeable men, I was prepared to accept the major religions of the world as equal in their _potential,_ in offering both faith in God and a code for ethical conduct. I thus became a freethinker in matters religious or spiritual. That was not surprising. In my unquestioning youth about religious beliefs and practices, I had been taught that all religions take us to God, with no one occupying the high road. In the following decade, I felt that these religions did not offer me an adequate explanation of, or even a guide to, what might be termed ultimate reality. That is, about what it is, how it all came about, our place in it, and what it is all about.

So, whilst I remained a religious freethinker, I come to accept the highest metaphysics of Hinduism, as taught in the Upanishads, as offering me a seemingly adequate, yet tentative, path to understanding all existence. What I was offered was a vision of the unity or one-ness of all existence, and the means of achieving or 'r _ealising_ ' it. This could easily sit atop the freethinker's guide to faith in the Creator, and our mutual obligation to one another as creatures of the Creator. For, faith is only a well-traveled road, not a destination.

I now believe that the destination is that Ocean of Consciousness from which we once arose, and to which we shall ultimately return, after many, many reincarnations into Earthly life. The reincarnations are to polish us up in appropriate ways. The life between lives is to provide an opportunity for learning to do better in the next life. The path through this next life would have been substantially carved out by us in the preceding polishing process. So I have read. So I now believe.

After retirement, I re-visited the major religions. I saw no reason to change my views as a consequence. When I first began to read seriously about religion at the age of about twenty four, I just needed to know what had been written about the human instinct to explain the Cosmos and the place of mankind within it.

The re-visiting of the major religions after retirement was essentially to enable a comparison about what the ancients, including the major prophets, had said, and the views of the modern cosmologists in their attempts to explain the universe.

In this search, I found that the fundamentalist atheists, with their absolute reliance on the scientific method as the sole means to knowledge, were not persuasive. I had studied scientific methodology through psychology, as it was a science subject, and realised that puny Man, with only five senses and their processor, the brain, is most probably unable to be cognizant of, and is thereby unaware of, the totality of even the physical universe.

Psychic or extra-sensory phenomena, because they cannot be replicated in a controlled experimental environment, are excluded by these fundamentalists as non-events, or as aberrations or deviations from what they perceive, in their limited perspective, to be the truth. But some of them feel free to offer such strange things as 'memes' (equivalent to genes, whose reality has already been proven); or 'punctuated evolution' (the sudden, but unexplained, explosion in the arrival of new or substantially varied species); or the human unconscious, in order to explain certain phenomena. But they do not provide scientific proof; that is, proof through their preferred methodology. These strange concepts or purported explanations are either inferred or simply semantic sleight-of-hand.

Thus, does the concept of punctuated evolution in evolutionary theory do more than offer a new term but which does not explain the mechanism of the alleged process? In a similar vein, when my children were at school, we were fascinated by 'reformers' who merely wanted to change the terminology of grammar, redefine mathematical terms, and otherwise re-label, without advancing these components of basic knowledge. As for memes and the unconscious, they are merely inferred structures or facilities. There is no scientific proof of their existence or function.

Speculative science can thus be as un-demonstrable or un-confirmable as are explanations offered by those studying parapsychology or psychic phenomena. My psychic and spiritual experiences are both un-demonstrable and un-confirmable, but acceptable, were one to have an open mind.

However, I was pleasantly surprised when some of the physicists/cosmologists I had read offered their understanding of the Cosmos in words whose underlying concepts could have been drawn from the Upanishads. It became easy for me to continue to believe that faith and reason are the two wings that raise the airship of the human mind into the realms of understanding of all that is, and that might be. I can continue to accept the teaching that each of us has a soul; that our souls arose from that infinite ocean of consciousness that unifies all existence and experience; and that, when each soul has eventually completed its cycle of rebirths, it will return to that cosmic ocean of unity.

It would be a meaningless question for me to ask why that is so. For, like the concept of a cosmic Creator, and our belief in such a Creator, and the imputed or inferred nature and power of that Creator, there are, and have to be, mysteries beyond our limited selves. Through following the path available through these mysteries, I intuitively believe (perhaps I only hope) that one could advance spiritually, and finally become able to understand why it is so. Then perhaps, as advanced souls, we may return to Earth, or other parts of the Cosmos, to guide seekers like me to also come to understand why it is so. Why is it necessary to understand why it is so? How would I know?

It is thus easy for me to believe that the major religions offer the same core lesson about the Creator and His/Her creations, when the encrustations attached to them by egoistic religious leaders throughout the history of these religions are discounted. Does relative (religious) institutional power, or power over fellow humans, grow exponentially with increasing difference in theology? The core lesson of the major religions is two-fold: we are the creations of a universal God, who is out there and, at the same time, is also within us. We are thus bonded to one another. All other speculations about the origins of faith and of ethics then become superfluous, do they not? The lessons of the Upanishads represent the icing on top of the substantial cake represented by the teachings of the great religious leaders.

Best of all, the Upanishads encourage us to seek to 'realise', through meditation (that is, without the intervention of any middlemen), the unity of all existence. My search led me to two spiritual experiences and a couple of glimpses into what seemed to be past lives. The first experiences were uplifting, the others a little worrying. That was one facet of my reality.

I then decided to investigate psychic phenomenon. A clairvoyant healer claimed to be able to describe salient aspects of a couple of my past lives. I could not accept her claim because I felt that my past lives belong to me, and were contained within my soul. Yet there was a consistency in her description of geographical features with what I had felt were my own glimpses, through auto-hypnosis, into my past lives. I subsequently came to accept that higher spirit beings might be able to tap into the record of my past lives.

Then a major shift in my framework of reference for life's experiences and knowledge occurred. The spirit of the uncle I had respected most came, with the help of a well-accredited clairvoyant, to offer me spiritual guidance. We had, at one point, a three-way dialogue, although I could neither see my uncle nor hear him. It took me two years of reading, consultation with people I respected, and some serious thinking, to accept that experience, and to seek to act on the advice I received. Why was I hesitant about accepting that most significant experience, which subsequently put me onto a new path of living? Was I too rational? Was it too much of a shock, culturally and intellectually?

The strand of significance in the message I received was that I could contribute to building a bridge between where I came from and where I am. Seeing that the spirit world had experienced some difficulty (so my uncle said) in getting me to Australia, and since I have a sound knowledge of migrant settlement programs, because I managed all of them in turn, as well as personal experience of migrant settlement, I wrote three books. That took ten years in all. I did this when the Cosmos moved me to a quiet seaside area. It was significant that a clairvoyant told my ex-wife about my move long before I felt the pull of it. Was it also significant that, in primary school, a couple of my essays said that I wished to live and die by the sea? In my retirement 'cave', a small cheap home, I live a life of contemplation, and write. This is another facet of my reality.

In 'Destiny Will Out' I combine my settlement experience with details of successful official settlement programs to offer the conclusion that, without the constraining and divisive influences of tribal politicians and priests, Australia's multi-ethnic youth would instinctively reach out to one another in time, producing one people out of many.

In 'The Karma of Culture', as an insider operationally and an outsider metaphysically, in addition to dealing with the issues arising from efforts by immigrants to retain their cultures unaltered, I highlight the cultural clash between the relatively recently developed individualism of the West and the time-tested collectivism of Asia. To me, five centuries is a relatively short period. I also emphasise the benefits that Eastern philosophies offer in countering the materialism and spiritual impoverishment of the West. The breakdown in marriages and the denial of on-going care, guidance and love to their children by excluded parents is part of the evidence. Has not the family been the core unit of society throughout the ages?

In 'Hidden Footprints of Unity' I examine, in the main, inter-community relations and the universal search for the Creator. I end by seeking a colour-blind Australia and an integrated Australian culture drawing upon worthwhile components of the cultures brought into the country by its immigrants. My objective is unity, a one-ness, from the increasing cultural diversity of Australia. For, cultural diversity is a new experience for us, since the Australian indigene is not yet seen as an ethnic entity, only a social embarrassment. This is a reality I seek.

Re-visiting the tape recording when the spirit of my uncle came to offer me advice, I realised that what I had written is exactly what I was asked to do. Since my writing was substantially intuitively constructed, I will assume, with considerable gratitude, that I was guided. The books have been put out into the Cosmos. It is now up to the Cosmos, or the spirit world, to ensure that the messages in my books permeate the minds of those who shape our lives. All three books were offered under my birth name Arasa (=Raja) on another advice from the spirit world.

This book 'The Dance of Destiny' has been written, not for those who shape our lives, but for those who simply live their lives. In part 1 of the book, by describing my life before it became integrated into Australia, I seek to have the reader know a lot more about the subjectively experienced colonial world than is generally available; to understand the role of Destiny in our lives; and to appreciate that we do also have free will to shape our future lives. In Part 2, I show how Australia is on its way to joining the rest of mankind in a mature way, leavened by its unique 'fair-go'ethos.

In relation to the hoped-for integration of cultures in Australia, it might be another generation or two before the Anglo-Aussie is willing to share the seats of power and influence. In 2007, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation told me that Australia's classical music is European only. Ten years before, a prominent publisher told me that Australians would not wish to read about their country from the viewpoint of a foreigner. Yet, he knew that, by then, I had had a highly interactive and contributive life in Australia as an adult for nearly fifty years. It has also been impossible for me to obtain an interview over the TV or the radio, or to have my books reviewed by other than a couple of rural newspapers. Yet, my books have been favourably appraised professionally, and endorsed by senior academics in diverse disciplines, and by other notable persons. The subject matters, and the issues I have raised, are topically relevant. Am I still too black? Or, too foreign?

Politically, the odd migrant has been elected to political office, but is controlled by the party system. It was not until the 1990s that Indian immigrants were allowed to enter Australia as freely as had the East Asians, in spite of immigration entry having been officially made non-discriminatory in the early 1970s. The previous narrow door was achieved by having only one Australian immigration selection officer, of middle rank only, for the whole of the Indian sub-continent. I should know. Two of them were sequentially members of my team on their return home. The 2001 Census showed that the majority of the Asians in Australia are both East Asian and Christian. A few coloured TV presenters do not reflect the colour imbalance in other spheres of activity.

The strange thing about skin colour is that those of us who are seen as coloured by white people are usually surrounded by people of a range of colours, and are therefore not conscious of any significance in the variations in, or lack, of colour. Indeed, I have to be told that I am coloured before I become indifferently aware of it. Australia needs to become colour blind. This is also a reality which might be achieved some day.

Of course, adaptation is two-way. It took me a while to get used to the pasty skin colour, long noses, big feet, and either English-equivalent nasal or dry-throat Australian accents of many; and to the arrogance of the ignorant. It took me longer to stop being irritated by the silly superiority displayed through speech or facial and behavioural expression by the latter. The trouble was that the rude were not always uneducated. A misreading of Christ's "Only through me shall ye know God" may have justified the destruction and despoliation of cultures, societies and families throughout the world historically. But, is there something in the New Testament with its loving God that justifies the insulting behaviour towards coloured people or foreign cultures or worse still, the discrimination I experienced by self-titled Christians, including those who were prepared to admit they had not attended Mass for some time?

The superiority claimed was generally in relation to skin colour, religion, food preparation, and accents. Actually, it is on-going, but at a lower frequency and volume. I think it significant that no one has yet claimed to me a superiority by education, brain power, capacity to administer or organize, to play sport, or arouse orgasms in one's partner. I suppose that the superior ones are only trying to accent their positives, as they saw it.

But, it did not take me long at all to appreciate the open-ness, the humour, the charity, and willing help displayed, especially by the poorer ordinary people in Australia. With his sense of personal dignity, once he accepted me, I was treated with warmth by the ordinary Aussie. He has no tickets on himself. But, I do wonder if there is an adequate sense of community in day-to-day living. Without any exposure to extended family, for the average Australian, it is the workplace social club and the sporting/drinking/poker machine clubs which are the surrogate communities. These are, by their nature, relatively impersonal. That is not a reality that is comforting. It is civil society, that army of volunteers (and I remain one) that is the mainstay of each community I have lived in. This is a far superior aspect of Australian reality.

It has not been easy, after a quarter of a century of a happy and busy family life, to adapt to a life of being alone, offering some occasional loneliness. This is in spite of being culturally sensitised to the need to divest oneself of all commitments when one's family responsibilities had been completed.

I realise that in immigrant on his own belongs to no place, to no one in his new home. I have met many of these pieces of flotsam in the early 1950s. Were we to have retained close contact with extended family back home (as I have), we can then feel comforted, knowing that we still belong to that larger collective which initially formed us. The lack of an extended family support in a nation which believes only in nuclear families (except for the single mothers) does not represent any wheels-falling-off or flat-tyre experiences. It represents the ground of the individualism of Western nations.

So, perhaps like the hermit crab, I go out to forage and to practice karma yoga in the form of community service, returning to my cave of contemplation to seek that Upanishadic realisation of the unique unity of all life. For, I shall soon join the Other Side. That surely is a better place, whatever dimension it is in. There, I shall prepare for my next sojourn on Earth.

Hopefully, that life will be smoother and more productive. And, if the Cosmos, or the higher beings, so decide, I can continue to seek to build bridges between diverse peoples. For, ultimately, we all need to become part of a single Family of Man on Earth before we finally re-join our original home.

However, I have been told that what I think of as that Recycling Station is little different from Earth. That is not a happy thought. However, we will be offered opportunities to learn. So I have been told. But then, did not Dr. Radhakrishnan, former president of India, say that we are born on earth to learn, not to enjoy oneself? What a spoilsport!

On a more serious note, Sir James H. Jeans, an astronomer and physicist of an earlier era, said "... the universe begins to look more like a great thought than like a great machine. Mind no longer appears as an accidental intruder into the realm of matter;... hail it as the creator and governor of matter... "

The Hindu authors of the Upanishads had, however, already pointed out, as said by author Easwaran, that "... the powers of the mind have no life of their own. The mind is not conscious; it is only an instrument of consciousness."

Living now in my mind, in contemplation of my Creator, and always aware of my spirit guide, I am more able to accept any further flat-tyre and wheels-falling-off experiences, were they to occur. For, these are merely the manifestations of human will-power and folly, in a universe whose external and internal trajectories are symbolically signified by the flight of dragons. They soar into the sky of solitude, and simultaneously sink into the sea of humanity, as they sing the songs of significance about their true home, that ocean of consciousness which unites all existence and non-existence.
