A young boy in a kampung village, was wearing a pair of worn down sandals, an oversized singlet and faded blue shorts. In his hands held a inflatable small soccer ball which his kampung friends and him would kick around the beach, sometimes scraping off the ball’s black and white paint when it grazes over sharp rocks in the soft sand. “I’ll be home before sunset,” he says to his mom, who was working tirelessly in the kitchen, preparing curry fish head rice and potatoes for dinner, filling the small wooden house with its rich, intoxicating scent. With a crooked smile he swung the bamboo door open, running and running for the sandy shores.
The young boy picked up his cartoon school bag, a colourful picture of his favourite TV show characters printed on the front of the bag. It was a new fresh bag his mother had bought for him the day before at the pasamalam, under a clearance sale. He swung his trusty bag loaded with books and stationaries over his shoulder and put on a pair of grey, worn socks, grabbed the blue water bottle on the kitchen counter which his mom had cleaned and filled for him. “I’ll be back before sunset,” he said to his mom, who was stitching beautiful pieces of thin hexagon cloth together, in all sorts of colour and pattern, to form a blanket for the nights that were too hot for the thick woolly one they owned. With a crooked smile, he swung the bamboo door open, running and running for the last bus that would bring him to school.
The young boy, buttoned up his only button up shirt and trousers. He swung his messengers bag onto his shoulders which was filled to the brim with the latest Singaporean newspapers, the same copy in all sorts of languages. He greased up the gears of his hand me down bicycle, and stepped on its pedal to make sure the wheels could turn smoothly. “I’ll be back before sunset,” he said to his mom, who was mixing baby powder with the warm water she just boiled for the boy’s newborn baby brother who was sitting on the living room floor, grabbing at his small toy car with a missing wheel. With a crooked smile, he swung the bamboo door open, running and running to go grab his bicycle to cycle off to work.
The young boy, in his green yellow and brown camouflaged uniform, wiped his the beads of sweat off his forehead, and hoisted his heavy backpack full of all sort of dangerous weapons, firearms, grenades, bayonets. He loaded his gun with gunpowder, and loaded his heart with bravery and courage. “I’ll be back,” he said to his mom who was cradling his 5 year old brother in her warm comforting arms, as he clings onto the cloth on her sleeves and crying into the cloth on her shoulders. With a crooked smile, he swung the metal doors on the ceiling of the air raid shelter open, running and running.
"Forgotten"- A Writing Journey 