Golden Angsana and the Smells of Memory: A Childhood Between Worlds
by Cheeseburger Buddha
As often mentioned whenever the issue of budget and education arises, the arts and social programs are the first to face the axe. They’re dismissed as irrelevant, and worse yet, this reflects a deep ignorance in our society. It is a deprivation of the human mind’s most essential gifts: creativity, interpersonal communication, the ability to coexist, and to understand concepts like prejudice and racism.
Children today are schooled to serve technology, not to question it, not to balance it. Education has become a factory floor, where the highest standard of success is measured by employability. We call this progress. Children are taught how to become servants of an economic machine, not how to become free-thinking human beings. There is nothing inherently right or wrong with this structure, but it is not the only way to educate a child. And it is time for a wake-up call.
Our educational system, still shackled to the imitation of the British model, has grown stale. I myself went through this system from 1956 to 1969. I never liked school—not until I crossed the ocean and went to college in Green Bay, Wisconsin, where I finally graduated in 1982. I owed the U.S. government USD $10,000 and paid it back in full within ten years.
My first classroom experience was at Sekolah Rendah Kampung Jawa — now renamed Sekolah P. Ramlee after Malaysia's legendary black-and-white film icon. One morning, I must have floated out the window in my thoughts, not paying attention in class. The next thing I knew, my face was slammed hard onto the desktop by the teacher. His name was Cikgu Hamid, and to this day, I remember his face.
Fortunately, the uncle who had adopted me decided to move me to an English school. That move saved me. I was transferred to Francis Light Primary School at the junction of Anson Road and Perak Road. A Chinese temple stood on that corner — it’s still there. Walking to school from Sungai Pinang and River Road was a daily adventure.
The path led me through fields of hutan deruju — tall thistle-like plants growing in coastal mangroves. I’d pass the tan lembu, or cattle corral, where Indian families lived. The place looked like Little Rural India. I had a few Indian friends there, and I loved the scent of cow dung and curry in the air. Even as a child, I was acutely sensitive to smells.
I can still smell my village after the noon high tide. I can remember the pungency of a pile of shit below me when I squatted to take a dump. I loved the smell of bales of rubber stacked in the gudangs along Weld Quay, the tang of onions aboard the HMS State of Madras, or The Rajula — ships docked where my uncle worked. Sometimes he arranged for me to get a tour on board, guided by his office boy.
Pig farms, goat corrals, and cow stalls — each had its distinct aroma. Chicken houses, too. I adored the fishy smell of wet markets where my grandmother shopped. Years later, I would fall in love with the scent of Jake’s Pizza on Eastside Main Street, Green Bay.
Now, during my recovery from surgery, I have time to dwell on these childhood memories. I do so not out of any reason but because I simply enjoy it.
What I cherished most during my walks to Francis Light were the Angsana trees lining Perak Road. During the flowering season, their bright yellow blossoms would fall like gold onto both sides of the road. The morning air was cooler back then, sometimes misty, making the scene look like a dreamland. The smell of strong Chinese incense would drift into my thoughts, telling me that school was just around the corner.
It was a love-hate relationship I had with that school. I loved being able to sing Elvis Presley’s "It’s Now or Never" in front of the whole school. I painted six-foot-tall murals for Parents' Day that hung proudly on the walls. But I never returned to that school after leaving. I often passed it, tempted, but always made excuses.
Why? Because my name was Nanda Sena s/o Simone Bartholomuze. That name alone disqualified me from being considered a Malay among my Malay peers. Raised as a Buddhist by my uncle, I did not attend Friday prayers — and that made me a kafir in their eyes. I came home daily to a house full of Malay Muslims — uncles, aunts, cousins — all Muslims, except for my uncle and me.
I’ve told this story before, so I won’t dwell too deeply again. But being neither here nor there meant consequences. Religious judgment — even at that age — cuts deep. Most Malay boys simply avoided me. One or two called me a kapiak to my face. I was too young to fight back, but the sting remains.
So I hung out with the Chinese boys.
What I missed at school was often made up for at home. No one in my kampung, not my neighbors, not my grandmother, ever called me kapiak. Ego says perhaps behind my back they did. Had I known, I might have flipped.
Dealing with religious issues has been one of the most difficult chapters of my life — and I’ve lived many. Even now, I often wonder where I fit when it comes to faith. But I do pray. I worship One All-Encompassing Being. The Supreme Consciousness. The Lord of Creation and the Afterlife.
As a Muslim by birth, I call my Lord Allah Aza wa Jalla. I believe in Muhammad as His Messenger. From Him I came, and to Him I shall return.
In the meantime, I live my life as honestly as I can. I honor my parents and their faith. I strive to fulfill my destiny in the hopes that my children might glimpse where I placed my faith.
I have survived the worst — not by turning away, but by delving into the depths of every religious tradition I was exposed to. I still do. I took it on as a challenge when I was old enough to think for myself.
And on the many occasions when I have come close to my final breath, I turned to my Lord, seeking forgiveness, surrendering to Grace. I return to Him like a slave to his Master. And in that state of surrender, I felt ready for death.
But death never came.
And so I keep on living.
#CheeseburgerBuddha #GoldenAngsana #ChildhoodMemories #PenangStories #MalaysianHistory #CulturalIdentity #ReligiousJourney #SpiritualReflections #FrancisLightSchool #MemoryAndScent #GrowingUpInMalaysia #ArtAndSoul #Autobiography #ZenInTheCity #MalayChineseIndian
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