There once stood a house on Pulau Duyong,
Nestled at the edge where the river kissed the sea,
Built of wood, dreams, and the laughter of travelers.
A refuge for wanderers, a gallery of memories,
Varnished walls echoing conversations in many tongues,
Decks worn smooth by bare feet, sun, and salt.
Children swam beneath her shade,
Artists sketched, seekers sat in silence —
And the wind carried away their whispers.
Now she sinks slowly, forgotten by those
Who hold title but no heart,
While those who truly cared watch in quiet ache
As heritage returns to silt and shadow.
But some things — like stories — don’t drown.
Reflection: The Yellow House, Pulau Duyong
The Yellow House, once a vibrant retreat at the heart of Pulau Duyong Kecil, is quietly returning to the river. It has been years since its last true caretaker stood watch over her, and now she leans into disrepair — a structure abandoned more by spirit than by time. The place, like its enigmatic founder Awi, seems to be slipping into oblivion.
The shame is not just architectural. It lies in the indifference of those who could care but won't — such as Awi’s wife, now an accomplished academic, who seems far removed from the pulse of the community that once gave this place life. She holds on to a name and title, but not the soul of the space. And sadly, she won’t let it go to those who would breathe life back into its walls.
How I wish I had the strength and means to resurrect her—not as a replica, but in spirit. The dream of laying foundations for something similar still flickers quietly in the back of my mind. Perhaps, one day, a Yellow House will rise again, built not from nostalgia but from vision — a space for art, community, silence, and rebirth.
Until then, I have the images — many of them — of days when my children swam beneath its stilts and laughter rang across the decks. And I will share them. I will remember. I will write her into memory, so she never fully disappears.
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Title: The House that Held the River's Silence
Some places do not simply exist in space—they live in us. Awi’s Yellow House, though never truly yellow, held a kind of golden stillness only few knew how to find. Built of wood and river breath, it once drew wanderers from all over the world—pilots and poets, healers and heartbreakers, children who swam off the rickety jetty and dreamed of boats that could fly. It was never mine, but it held a piece of me. Still does.
Now, it sinks—timber surrendering to time, memory warping like the old planks we once nailed in laughter and sweat. The paint was never bright; just that humble coat of protection Awi and I brushed on to keep the elements at bay. But no paint can protect a place from abandonment—not when will is fractured and ego guards the gate.
The shame is not in decay. Everything returns to the soil or the sea in time. The shame is in the silence of those who could have acted, but did not. The shame is in a heritage held hostage by a name on a deed rather than the hands that cared for it.
Still, I do not mourn what is passing—I mark it. I honor it. And I hold the seed of something new, warm at the back of my mind: a place to rise again, not in mimicry, but in spirit. A place built with clear intention. A new refuge. Maybe it won’t hold the same breeze or cast the same shadows at dusk—but maybe it will hold laughter again. Children’s voices. Brush strokes. Quiet meditation by the water’s edge.
Let this be a whisper to those who remember.
The Yellow House is sinking—but its spirit has not drowned.
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