Miss Seetoh in the World

by Catherine Lim

  It was said that he healed through some miraculous oil that oozed imperceptibly from his body, from a spot somewhere near his heart, a liquid that was the pure ichor of gods, giving the upper part of his body a wondrous sheen as if it were lit from within. A mere dab of the holy fluid was sufficient for the healing.

  The question uppermost in Singaporeans’ minds as they read newspaper reports of him and watched him on TV, with his luminescent skin, his snow-white hair and beard, his forehead daubed with red ash, was: would he forgive the great TPK enough to work a miracle for Mrs TPK, said to be beyond the power of modern medical science? Even more significantly, would the great TPK humble himself to ask?

  ‘Oh my God,’ gasped Maria as she watched The Holy One on TV, robed in white, sitting with crossed legs on a raised platform in some huge hall, a garland around his neck, his eyes closed, his hands pressed reverently together while around him Singaporeans looked on, in awe and fascination. The national interest in him was too great for the media to block out news and images of him as they had done in the past. In any case he was no longer a political opponent but a holy Hindu man, as entitled to respect as any holy man or woman from any of the other religious faiths in the society.

  Maria had vivid recollections of the shabby little man in Middleton Square with his pathetic pamphlets, crushed by the weight of his financial losses and the sickness of his wife, and also of the overwhelming floral tributes – symbol of a nation’s guilt-charged conscience – filling the square after the news of his death in India. She recollected in every vivid detail his lunch with her when he spoke, with tears of bitter rage spurting from his eyes, about the great TPK’s taunt of him, comparing him to crawling vermin.

  Now he was a towering magisterial figure, as awe-inspiring as any visionary emerging from the wilderness with the fire of the sun in his eyes, for he had seen what was not granted to ordinary mortals. According to the rumours that swelled in fervour by the day, he had come to show forgiveness and to heal a whole nation, starting with the physical healing of poor Mrs TPK. Maria thought, no tale from my imagination, even at its runaway best, can match the amazing story of V.K. Pandy.

  This was the great world outside that Maria had every desire to connect with.

  Forty-One

  From where she stood, among the huge crowd thronging the Singapore Exposition Hall which was being used by The Holy One to meet, touch and cure Singaporeans, Maria could not see him clearly. Despite the transformation in appearance and setting, she could recognise the V.K. Pandy of old, specially those close, deep-set eyes that had filled with angry, bitter tears that day when he had lunch with her. The recollection of the little donation of money in a brown envelope that she had shyly pushed towards him and which he had pushed back, made the transformation even more staggering. She had experienced some moments of surreality in her life, none exceeded by this one, as she continued to stare at the man she had never stopped thinking and speaking of as ‘poor Pandy’. Now no commiseration was called for, only respect and reverence for the white-robed figure raised to sainthood; indeed, the image of the The Holy One, pure, transcendental, had already wiped out or rendered irrelevant whatever lowly image remained of the despised political opponent, just as a mighty prophet or seer would not be remembered for his earlier life as a goatherd or carpenter or water-carrier.

  Maria thought, I wish I could believe all those rumours. Already Singaporeans were saying, I saw with my own eyes, I was there when the crippled man stood up, somebody who saw it happened told me, the woman who had the evil spirit cast out of her was a relative of my mother’s friend. Everybody talked about the wondrous method of healing: a tiny dab of the holy fluid that emanated from the holy skin, which some claimed had a fragrant smell that was not exactly like perfume but rather like the essence of some mysterious nocturnal flower.

  Already, into the holy enterprise of healing the sick had crept the unholy element of competition. Some Christian churches had noticed a declining number in attendance, and a few had given subtle warnings from the pulpit about not being taken in by forces that were surely against the Holy Spirit. There was a tree in the compound of a Chinese temple that had been attracting worshippers because its bark bore the distinct face of the Monkey God, but since the arrival of The Holy One, there had been a drop in the number of devotees bringing joss-sticks, flowers and food offerings.

  Through the excitement and wonder sweeping Singapore, the government of the great TPK must have been keeping an alert look-out for any signs of subversion that could result in disruption and disorder. But no, there were no political undertones in The Holy One’s speeches, no evidence that his followers were spreading malicious rumours. Also, there was no evidence of potential religious conflict, for The Holy One’s speeches were only about love, forgiveness and mercy. Indeed, the huge numbers flocking to see him included the entire range of faiths in the multiracial society, as well as the non-religious who came out of curiosity and wondered if there might be psychological and medical underpinnings to all those miracles after all.

  It was whispered that the return of The Holy One had thrown the great TPK into a quandary that had little to do with the old politics. Mrs TPK had started having dreams in which The Holy One as well as the old mentor who had raised him from the dead, had appeared to her, promising to cure her. In his hand, he held a little phial of pure white fluid which gave out a heavenly scent. Mrs TPK woke up from each dream in tears, knowing that her husband scoffed at miraculous cures; moreover, his hatred of V.K. Pandy was probably too ingrained to allow him to face the once arch foe in the completely reversed role of a supplicant.

  Maria felt a small tap on her shoulder. A man was standing next to her; from his white robe and daubed forehead, indeed his very demeanour, she could tell he was one of The Holy One’s followers. He spoke in English and had a message for her: The Holy One had invited her for a special ceremony to witness the greatest miracle of all. The messenger gave the details of time and place and emphasised that attendance at the ceremony was by invitation only, and she was not to let anyone know.

  Maria scribbled down the details quickly. Her thoughts went into a tumult of speculative wonder and fear. The fear was for the strangeness of it all; she was being invited into a world that she had little experience of and even less inclination for – the world of the supernatural, of faith and healing, of miracle cures that she had associated with simple-minded, unquestioning people like Por Por, or perfervid converts like her mother and her fellow churchgoers on their frequent pilgrimages to Europe, or those Singaporeans who went to pray to trees bearing images of temple deities. If the special event to which she was being invited was one more of the so-called miraculous healing sessions, she would not be at all keen to attend as a witness who was likely to be called upon later to testify at some public event, for holy men and women were not above the promotional stunts of business entrepeneurship. No, she thought, I don’t think I’ll go.

  As she was about to leave the hall, elbowing her way though the crowds, she felt another tap on her shoulder. It was the same messenger.

  He said, ‘The Holy One requests to see you. Follow me.’ It was bizarre, as if the god-man had read her thoughts and wanted to reassure her.

  She was led to a small back room in the hall, where she waited a full twenty minutes before he appeared. He stood at the doorway, looking at her with the instantly recognisable deep-set, glittering eyes. She moved slowly towards him, as if impelled by an invisible force, aware of a strange sensation filling her entire body, causing it to tremble. He was aware of her moment of confusion when she wondered whether to offer her hand in greeting as an old acquaintance or to bow as a new devotee.

  There was a slight smile on his face as he said, ‘Miss Maria Seetoh, I have not forgotten you. You were the only one in Singapore to whom I opened my heart, a bitter and wounded heart. But it is wounded no more. It is full of love and compassion and forgiving.’

  As her eyes filled with tears in the sensat
ion of being in the presence of suprahuman greatness, her mind was alert with the need to ask questions of a purely worldly nature: ‘Didn’t Dr Benjamin Phang help you too? With money, influence? There were rumours regarding the Big Bird incident –’ But one never asked rude questions of a holy man, only listened to what he had to say.

  Through her tears she saw a smile on his face, and when she blinked them away, he was gone. The Holy One and his attendants had vanished. She was alone in the little back room. The whole experience had the bizarre feel of a dream.

  On the eve of the big day of the ceremony, she was unable to sleep: what if her alarm clock failed to wake her up at the strange hour of four in the morning to allow her to be in time to reach the venue for the ceremony, a place she had never even heard of, tucked away in a corner of the island? The hours ticked away, as she tossed and turned, wondering about the mystery that would soon unfold. A strange place, a strange hour, a miracle to outdo all the miracles that The Holy One had performed in Singapore. A miracle that had to do with love and compassion and forgiving.

  ‘Oh my god,’ gasped Maria, in a moment of stupendous comprehension. Of course. The miraculous healing of Mrs TPK. The ultimate act of forgiveness.

  She had heard rumours of TPK, out of sheer love of his wife, sending aides secretly to the holy man to ask for the magic phial she had repeatedly seen in her dreams, and offering any amount of money to build any temple or shrine he wanted. It was also said The Holy One had angrily rejected the offer of money, but promised to cure Mrs TPK.

  Breathless with wonder and excitement, Maria was ushered into a small room which had only one other occupant who carried a camera. He was clearly a foreigner tasked with recording the ceremony; so The Holy One was not above the vanity of watching a replay of his miracle-working sessions.

  ‘Do you know what’s happening?’ whispered Maria. ‘Why are we here in this small room with only these slits and peepholes? Where is The Holy One?’ but the cameraman simply put a finger to his lips and continued checking his equipment.

  Maria could not take her eye off the peephole. It was as she had expected. She saw the great TPK, dressed in his habitual white shirt and white trousers, standing in what seemed like an open area, lit only by a large fire burning in the centre, surrounded by what appeared to be huge wooden or canvas panels to ensure utmost secrecy. He was accompanied by two aides, and he wore an expression of tense anxiety in place of the habitual stern bellicosity. He looked around nervously, as his aides, one on each side, stood by with stern impassivity. The Holy One was not in sight.

  Then after about thirty minutes, by which time the nervousness had produced a pallor on TPK’s face, The Holy One appeared accompanied by a small group of attendants, dressed in his usual snowy white robe opened at the chest to expose the holy sheen. He did not even look in TPK’s direction. He walked to a simple wooden chair some distance from the fire, and sat down, his back upright, his eyes closed, his hands laid casually on his lap. All the while, TPK’s eyes were following his every movement. The Holy One then signalled the aides to leave TPK’s side. There was a little show of reluctance for they had come with the sole purpose of protecting the prime minister, but he said something to them, and they walked off to stand and watch from a distance. The Holy One then signalled something with a raised hand and a nod, and at once, two of his attendants went up to TPK and began removing his clothes. There was a slight scuffle as his watching aides made to rush over and were restrained.

  ‘Oh my God,’ gasped Maria who saw the great TPK now standing as naked as a newborn.

  In a few seconds the attendants had put a white loincloth on him; Maria watched the prime minister grimace and wince at the indignity of having the long band of white cotton cloth strapped between his legs, then pulled up and wound tightly round his waist. She now understood the need for all the secrecy; it was gracious of The Holy One to agree to this condition for the conducting of the ceremony. She thought, as she continued to gaze fascinated at TPK through the peephole, ‘How he must love his wife.’

  The next stage of the ceremony was so bizarre that Maria whispered to the cameraman, ‘Are you sure you should be recording this? Why don’t you just skip it, out of deference to the Prime Minister of Singapore?’

  For TPK, his face and naked body daubed with red and black ashes, was mimicking the movements of one of the attendants: he was prancing round the roaring fire, like a primitive warrior in a cheap movie, closely watching the attendant as if to make sure he had all the movements right. The comical stomping of feet, flailing of arms, thrusting of hips and jerking of head were completely at odds with the look of serious purpose on his face.

  If Maria were not so shocked, if she were not convinced that religious rituals appeared comical only to profane outsiders, she would have let out a roar of laughter. She saw that the cameraman was smiling broadly and thought, ‘Maybe they will edit out this part and concentrate on the real ceremony.’ The real ceremony must be the handing over of the all-important phial, after which TPK would probably heave the greatest sigh of relief in his life, get dressed, go home to his wife, and put the unspeakably ludicrous incident behind him. Maria had no idea what the crux of the ceremony had been planned to be, and when she saw it, she understood its whole purpose, and broke into angry tears.

  ‘Stop.’ The Holy One waved an imperious hand after TPK had done a fourth idiotic dance round the fire. He stopped, panting and sweating, the red and black ash now brownish streaks running down his face, neck and chest. He stood expectantly facing The Holy One still sitting in his chair. One of his attendants went up to TPK and said something. There was a look of incredulousness, disgust, fear, loathing, all mixed together on TPK’s face, and the attendant had to repeat himself.

  ‘Oh my god, oh no,’ cried Maria, for now she saw the great TPK get down on the ground and lie prostrated there, facing The Holy One who was holding up in his hand a phial of pure white fluid glistening in the light of the roaring flames.

  It took three full prostrations to reach The Holy One who then handed over the phial. Maria thought she saw a smile on the holy face that said, ‘At last.’ The words that he uttered to her that day over lunch, his face all contorted with fury, came back to her: ‘He told me, ‘You will come crawling to me.’ ’ She had been invited to a ceremony, not of love and compassion and forgiving, but of revenge in the fullest manifestation of loathing and savage triumph.

  Suddenly she turned to the photographer and said, ‘Of course! You’re from The International Courier!’ So V.K. Pandy had included in his scheme of vengeance a fellow victim of the great TPK – the newspaper that together with him had been sued for huge sums of money. The man folded up his equipment, returned it to a large black bag, smiled and said, ‘It will be in the papers tomorrow. Not of course The Singapore Tribune. But all the others. The Malaysian papers will be full of it.’

  Forty-Two

  ‘Dearest Brother Phil,’ wrote Maria. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be such a depressing letter, and so soon after the happy one I had sent off! It looks like happiness and peace of mind come only in small doses to me, to be savoured quickly before they disappear again. But no, I don’t mean to wallow in self-pity. The one who deserves pity is the great TPK himself. Or The Holy One for being exposed as the exact opposite of what he had claimed to be. Or Mrs TPK who I understand is as ill as ever. Or Singaporeans taken in by the greatest act of fraudulence ever foisted on their society, the greatest fool being myself. So, yes, it’s a kind of self-pity I’m wallowing in, only its true name is shame. Now I’m being incoherent and you will have to excuse this wildly rambling letter because right now I’m so angry, so confused, so humiliated that I don’t know where to begin.

  I had told you about my great excitement regarding the re-appearance of V.K. Pandy as The Holy One because of his message of love, compassion and forgiving: I should have listened to your advice about being cautious. When you wrote, ‘A dose of scepticism is always healthy and a megadose here,
which I know you are very capable of, my dear Maria, is in order,’ you probably had no idea what this god-man was up to. The most contemptible form of revenge which he must have been planning in his holy head right from the start. Perhaps the revenge was the sole purpose of the holy man persona. And I was party to it! He had made use of a little satirical poem I had written about the great TPK, comparing him to the almighty Tua Peh Kong, for he had the cheek to give it to The Internationl Courier to use as a caption for the pictures that appeared with the report. Do you remember that I had read the poem to you? They used the opening line Even Tua Peh Kong must bow before a greater to caption the picture of TPK lying prostrated at the feet of V.K. Pandy holding aloft the phial of holy liquid. And they deliberately published those pictures showing TPK at his most ridiculous, in that obscene loincloth, dancing like a drunken Red Indian round the fire. And of course The Holy One knows he can’t be sued. It would draw attention to the whole fiasco that would make the poor Prime Minister of Singapore the laughing stock of the world. I understand that The New York Mail and The London Times have already carried the story – with those sickening pictures! (Did it reach any of your Irish newspapers? I hope not.) The Holy One is back in his ashram and must be laughing himself sick. I wish I could have gone up to him after that so-called ceremony and given him a piece of my mind. But this is mere bravado after the fact. I admit that when, upon his request, I had met him that day after he left his huge crowd of Singapore fans, I was overcome by a sense of his power. My God, what is happening in the world?