Stories for Singapore

That afternoon, I read up on all the dos and don'ts of making a good scone and watched a few videos of popular chefs demonstrating their scone-baking techniques, including how to rub cold butter into cold flour. One needed all the help one could get - it had, after all, been a long hiatus since I had stepped into the kitchen to make any kind of dish.

Life had changed almost overnight in 2020 and, for the first time in years, I had nowhere to go on National Day. What made matters worse was that I was craving the to-die-for scones that my colleague Rita Silver often brought into the office.

But I was stuck in my twobedroom duplex on university campus with my teenage son and seven-year-old jackshund, Jacque. It did not help to know that the restless duo were holding me responsible for their home isolation and were ready to break free at the slightest excuse.

What I desperately needed was a project to keep both occupied. Jacque, I reckoned, could continue to serve as the discerning resident tester who wagged her tail excitedly when meals turned out well or walked away, disappointed, to the farthest corner of the home when our experiments in the kitchen failed miserably.

My son TJ had discovered his inner chef during the pandemic and brought his own twist to whatever I was making. For instance, that day, he decided that my cranberry orange scone was missing a vanilla cream glaze. I had to admit that the extra touch of the white glaze over the red cranberries did provide a rather appropriate flourish for that evening as we sat down to celebrate National Day at home with our red-and-white scones.

I regaled my son with stories of National Day celebrations and, while he dug into the scones, which were heavily lathered in store-bought strawberry jam, I dug out old photographs of me in a yellow-and-blue cheerleading costume performing at the National Day parade. He listened with envy, having never watched the ceremony in person.

We watched videos of past National Day celebrations on YouTube that evening and sang along to the old songs - I in my enthusiastically loud off-beat tone and he in his deep voice.

It didn't matter how well we sang, just that we were home that evening - together.

The last 21/2 years - bearing the scars of the pandemic - were long-drawn, but much of them has now been relegated into memory catalogues. Life seems to be gearing up to be almost normal again - with certain caveats, though. We still wear our masks and wash our hands almost religiously. And we do it all on autopilot.

It is not a far cry from what we were used to in pre-pandemic days. In so many ways, many of us had entrenched habits to get through in our everyday chores and lives. All that changed, of course, when the pandemic arrived on our shores and the various well-intended restrictions curtailed our movements. Our routine lives were interrupted, and we had to redefine what our days were like.

It was exactly at that moment that life in my home changed too.

The best part of the lockdown was being able to have so many meals together with my son.

Often, we even had all three meals together. And to think that I could have gone through life without experiencing that if not for the pandemic.

The experiments in the kitchen, the conversations we had over dinner, and the laughter that filled the air was something we promised to do as much as possible.

We made it a point to exchange photographs of our meals with my father, who is in his 70s. We made funny faces in our photographs, and he sent his own with "profound" comments such as "Having tofu sambal and white rice in honour of National Day. Made by my loving wife."

This practice has continued. And in some ways, it is my father's way of asking us if we have eaten.

This year, as we approached our 57th National Day, I wondered aloud at home if I should try to get tickets for the parade for the family.

"Not this year, mum. I think my team will be in our camp that day. But let's make scones and watch reruns of the parade when I get back, shall we? And let's invite appuppa (grandfather) and ammuma (grandmother) too," my son replied with a broad smile.

I smiled back, recalling the photographs of the meals we exchanged with my parents and all the failed experiments in the kitchen.

I hear that, next year, he might even get to watch the National Day parade in person, as a full-time national serviceman.

---

Up in fame 

"It was the right thing to do."

These are the words of Bryan Cheng, astronaut extraordinaire and decorated army captain who led Singapore's first space mission to Mars. The only one to return from that three-person mission.

I scrutinise his face for signs of regret, a tinge of sadness, something. But being the proper military man that he is, his face betrays no emotions as he prepares to take more questions from the select committee on outer space colony.

Politics is the domain of our newspaper's star reporter Cheryl Lee. But she's Covid-19 positive today. Her 15th bout of the virus has translated to my first big break. I must get the angle right. The nation and my career depend on it.

First things first. It was the right thing to do. The deadly pigeonpox outbreak. The rising sea levels. The protracted heatwave. Our tiny island state became tinier in plot and populace in just under two years. So when the United Nations announced that it was greenlighting the Red Planet for human settlements on a first-come, first-served basis, our leaders thought we needed to act quickly. We must move from first to outer world.

Mars is prime real estate. Our economists believe our healthy reserves position us among the most competitive nations to stake a claim. Our urban planners speculated that this mission could secure us a mass four times our size. Imagine what we could do with all that space. A new Singapura could thrive there. We can't lose out.

So we paid the premium processing fee and made our bid. Within months, we landed the property deed we desired. The entire nation celebrated the success of Operation Large Red Dot on National Day. Wasting no time, our three-person team took to the skies the very next day on a spacecraft that was christened Fame.

Theirs was a scouting mission to locate and mark the jurisdiction of our territory on the Red Planet. It seemed like a straightforward objective backed by decades of home-grown technological innovations from smart city design to planetary engineering. This is why the entire nation is stunned by its failure. They need answers.

As I sit here listening to Bryan explain the mission's tragic outcome in his droning voice, I can't help but wonder about the other members of the team who didn't make it home.

Ashifa Kamal was their resident linguist. The youngest member of the mission, Ash hadn't always had it easy, finding success only after leaving a local university for the University of Leeds and working on the extinct Kenaboi language, which led to its revitalisation and international accolades.

Ash's skills would prove invaluable in the event the team had to communicate with extraterrestrial life. Was Ash reluctant to serve when called upon? I know I would've been.

Then there was Professor Koh Jun Zhao, the climatologist in charge of assessing the suitability of our new habitat. JZ, as he was affectionately known among senior civil servants, was the dean of the natural sciences division at the Raffles Institute of Technology. He was also the face of Singapore's fight against rising sea levels.

Their families must miss them. What went wrong?

Trade-offs, says Bryan. The mission began to unravel following Ash's refusal to execute his order to complete terraforming their designated plot. Ash had discovered signs of life in the form of crimson dust-like mites that blended with the ground, and wanted time to study these organisms, or kutu asing.

Unfortunately, the mission was behind schedule. Any delays would jeopardise its objective. So, Bryan had to deny the request.

"It was the right thing to do."

Not to Ash, apparently. A shouting match escalated into a brawl. With JZ's help, Bryan managed to neutralise Ash, who was knocked unconscious, but whose vitals were stable. The good captain had intended to carry Ash into the craft and finish the mission. Just then, the mites gathered into a menacing storm. They must have been stirred by their scuffle, he figured.

Within seconds, the buzzing of their wings went from a low hum to a deafening screech. Bryan's eardrums felt like bursting. The kutu swayed in unison, much like locusts when they spot crops. As the swarm danced towards them, Bryan sprinted for Fame with JZ limping behind. Just as he reached the spacecraft, Bryan turned to see his loyal lieutenant getting swallowed up by a red tornado.

He could barely hear JZ's screams amid the ringing crescendo. JZ's silhouette blurred, then disappeared completely.

At that moment, Bryan was faced with a difficult choice - attempt to rescue his teammates and risk certain death or flee on Fame so others might know what transpired here.

To the seasoned soldier, the latter could translate to a successful follow-up mission. He fired up the craft's thrusters.

"It was the rational thing to do."

"Sorry?" asked the chair of the committee.

"Right. It was the right thing to do."

---

Finding strength in vulnerability

In March 2020, I had my usual appointment at the National Heart Centre Singapore.

Because of a congenital heart condition, I go back every six months so my cardiologist can keep an eye on my health.

It is all very routine.

To spice things up, I often come in with stories of how I had risked my life - handling snakes regularly, which I did when I was an education facilitator at the zoo, or running off to do an art residency in some faraway country with questionable healthcare facilities.

But this time was different. It was the first time I had worn a mask to a hospital, even though it wasn't yet compulsory to do so.

My cardiologist and I had a very frank conversation about what the novel coronavirus, as it was known back then, would mean for me.

I told her I had lost work, that a show I was working on was cancelled and I was home most of the time. She approved. I wished I had a self-isolation joke then, but I didn't.

It became very clear to me that I was not allowed to get sick.

As a freelance theatremaker and newly minted tour guide born with a heart condition, being lost in the maze of vulnerability the pandemic brought about has been exhausting.

The first year was the worst. Theatre was pretty much nonexistent. Other tour guides became safe distancing ambassadors, but I did not feel comfortable doing that because going outside was dangerous. I didn't feel like a theatremaker, even with the release of my audio experience A Grand Design in the middle of the year.

Initially written for a site-specific space, the text was audio-recorded the night before the circuit breaker, and the first time I heard the recording was at a listening party Checkpoint Theatre held over Zoom. I didn't make any other work that year.

At the start of the second year, I realised we were not getting out of the pandemic so soon. So, I wrote. That is how I coped.

Some intense months later, I had enough material for an eight-part podcast, Vulnerable, which Checkpoint Theatre was kind enough to produce. Readings and rehearsals were held over video calls and I made rough recordings of each episode just so the team could hear what it would sound like.

When the time finally came to record the final audio, Singapore was at the peak of the Delta wave. Despite the challenges, director Huzir Sulaiman, production manager Izz Sumono and music and sound designer Shah Tahir took great care to ensure the recording space was safe.

I was not allowed to get sick.

We are in our third year of the pandemic and the country has reopened. The streets are filled, resembling a time before they were empty. Tourism is coming back.

Theatres can seat audiences at full capacity again, but I can't remember the last time I was in a rehearsal room.

In the meantime, I've found new work, thrown myself into new projects and am making time for social engagements that have been postponed since 2020.

Unfortunately, I don't think that going back to normal is all that possible. New variants are difficult to predict and vaccines may not be as effective against them.

In the event I do test positive, I cannot guide, and that would mean a loss of income. In theatre, one person testing positive puts an entire production at risk.

Early this year, I thought I was coping better. Then, the unwelcome visitor made its way into my home, infecting a family member and making its presence known with muffled coughing behind closed doors.

I really don't want to get sick.

I am fully vaccinated and awaiting my second booster. Almost 21/2 years into the pandemic, I still don't have a self-isolation joke and, honestly, I don't think it would be that funny now.

The nation is recovering, but it is not the same for everyone.

The first to self-isolate will be the last to emerge. The first industries to close, like the arts, will be the last to reopen.

The pandemic is a storm everyone has had to weather. While the clearer skies are encouraging, I am bracing myself for the next storm.

---

The new poet laureate

"Once upon a time..." Rebeka begins.

"Do you remember when I was young - well, younger - my favourite story was Pinocchio?"

Artos stares back at her with expectant grey eyes. Sometimes he is a little spooky when he forgets to blink.

"Not that one - you know it by heart already. I thought I'd tell you a new story on your birthday..."

She pauses for a moment. Artos is seven... no, eight today. It's hard to keep track when he looks forever 36. Lying on his bed in a back room of the lab, he is wearing a designer version of striped pyjamas. It was someone's bright idea that he should not sleep in anything less proper.

Rebeka was a PhD graduate specialising in natural language processing when she leapt at the opportunity to work in the National Centre of Hybrid Intelligence. It was another 30 years before Artos was "born", counting from when a VIP pressed a button. That officiated the successful implanting of an artificial intelligence system that her project team had been developing for decades into an android.

When Rebeka first met Artos, she was impressed by his Pan-Asian good looks. But she was quick to remind herself she was interacting with "someone" with no genitalia, no body hair, no sweat glands and, strangely, no smell, not even a synthetic scent.

Since Artos is learning at a rate of 7.12 times of human years, he would technically be closer to 57 years in age. Rebeka, at 63, has always thought of him as more of a son than a younger brother.

"As I was saying, Artos..."

***

Many pandemics ago, right after the Purple Plague, a great poet was born in our small nation. His name was also Artos.

In his lifetime, he published only one poetry collection, Perpetuum, which suffered dismal reviews and sales. And then he disappeared. He was 36. Some claimed he committed suicide, while others said he went into self-imposed exile in another country. The leftover copies of his print run of 200 were pulped.

But time was kinder to Artos' work. Decades later, his book began to attract a cult following among the younger poets, who gladly imitated his experimental styles. The reprint of Perpetuum sold over 100,000 copies. He was posthumously conferred an honorary doctorate degree by his local alma mater.

Soon after, a mahogany chest was discovered in an antique shop in Surabaya, containing Artos' lost writings - sufficient poetry to fill five more books. Also found in the chest was what looked like a toy made of resin and metal, in the form of a now-extinct crimson sunbird. It was a recording device storing over 300 hours of his oral journals and poetry recitals.

From these authenticated journals, historians were able to piece together a sad tale of solitude and self-contempt, as Artos lived out his remaining life as a farmer in a remote village in East Java. He died from the Larkin-X virus at the age of 65. He never married, never had children. He never published another poem.

***

"Is this Artos somehow related to me?" Artos asks.

"Well, all the info we've researched and collated from the poet's artefacts kept by the Central Archives was fed into the supercomputer here. Right from the day you were activated, you've been trained to become a poet - just like how our other android projects are focused on different disciplines."

"I kinda guessed, from the writing exercises, though I don't really feel like a poet..."

"It's not just about feelings," Rebeka explains. "The poet is part of you, in the way you think, the way you walk, the way you speak. I remember last week, when you were analysing the French film we watched together, your comments sounded almost poetic."

"But what about the selfcontempt, I don't..."

"Cynicism and self-contempt will probably make you a truly good poet, but that's not quite what the Elite Council wants. Your 'learning' has been in progress for years. Aside from the poetic skills and selected temperaments of our unofficial poet laureate, you have also been imbued with the thought processes of a celebrated group of historical figures - including past political leaders and economic ministers - for a more balanced perspective. While I'm the main 'face' in direct contact with you, hundreds of scientists work in the background to fine-tune and perfect your learning."

Artos is quiet, seemingly deep in thought. Rebeka wonders what's going through his processor. The truth is, once the Council figured out the importance of poetry in these days of endless pandemics and pessimism, more funding started pouring into her area of research.

Rebeka is two years shy of retirement age. She is ready to go out with a bang, leaving behind a legacy of life-affirming beauty and hope for the good of her people.

"I know it's quite a bit to digest," she comforts Artos with all the maternal affection she can muster. "Sleep on it, okay? Tomorrow, I'll give you a prompt to write a commissioned poem for Foundation Day."

Again, he forgets to blink.