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2006-09-16 - 2:32 a.m. In late 1999, I found myself lingering at the lobby to Jubilee Hall, between the afternoon and evening performances of the play 'sex.violence.blood.gore'. It was a play I had written with fellow playwright Chong Tze Chien, produced by The Necessary Stage. Collaboration, especially playwriting ones, generates its own unique energies, but in the case of the play, I wonder (in retrospect) whether there was a certain mischief in our tag-team combination. Having two authors for a work makes it difficult to decipher who wrote what, and becomes most expedient when the work has such a title as above. Faced with accusations of offending the audience, either one of us can plead innocence, deflecting the finger to the other. Or rather, both of us can direct attention towards a third party: the interaction between two texts produces a third one, and the play is nothing more than the handiwork of our uncontrollable progeny. The other mischief, of course, was in trying to mirror, through parody, the censorship situation that we were operating under at that time. All scripts to be vetted before performance had to be submitted to both the National Arts Council as well as to the Public Entertainment Licensing Unit, the latter a subsidiary body of the Police Force. This double-authorship of the censorship verdict (whether a play would be banned, given a conditional R(A) rating restricted to those 18 and above, or have scenes cut—the latter two was what happened to our play) often obscures its perpetrators, complicating the avenues for recourse and negotiation. But my story is not about the play, but what happened while I was loitering in the lobby. I walked up to the reception desk, where a friend was stationed, and was passed a book. It was apparently left behind by someone, a female, with the message to pass it on to me. The book was a handsome hardcover edition of the Malay Annals, Sejarah Melayu, Winstedt MS 18. There was no note slipped anywhere between the pages of the book, nor stuck on its front page. There was only a yellow price tag at the book's back cover, which told me of its price in Malaysian ringgit—but that only disclosed to me the nationality of the price tag, not of its previous bearer. What a mysterious gift this was—its sender anonymous, her motivations cryptic. Asking my friend to describe her did not yield anything fruitful—I knew of nobody who matched the description. Why could she not have passed the book to me in person? How come she did not leave behind at least her name? My first impulse was to feel admonished. She had chosen to pass me the book in this particular lobby—near the venue presenting my provocatively-titled play. She had not watched the play; its lurid title was perhaps enough to repulse her. Passing me the book, arguably the most important document of pre-colonial Malay literature, was her way of reminding me that I had certain responsibilities as a Malay person. I had to observe restraint in my writings, and not explore controversial themes. I should be aware that whatever attention I bring to myself is also unwelcome attention to the Malay community—a helpless burden borne by minorities throughout the world. Or perhaps she was suggesting that it was time I explored my own cultural history in my work. The book would be an enormous resource—of feudal structures and values, of myth and proverbs, of a storytelling style. Perhaps she even wanted me to abandon the coloniser's language and start writing in Malay. On the other hand, she might have passed me the book simply to share with me something she valued and loved. The book had transformed her, and one of the first signs of this transformation revealed itself when she walked into a Malaysian bookstore to purchase the book for me. I still think of her nowadays, when I read the book, which now occupies a shelf by my bedside. It has undoubtedly influenced my own writings, or rather, reinforced nascent aspects of it—the way certain passages inflate into exaggeration, the tendencies at times to take obsessed detours at the risk of losing the plot. I have no way to thank the lady who passed me the book four years ago, but I offer her this: There are passages in my writing, inspired by the book you have given me, which I dedicate to you. I have not been able to trace you, and I suspect that you might not be able to detect which of the many entries in this blog are my offerings to you, since literary influence often works in enigmatic ways. As the one who has given me the gift of the book remains unknown, so shall the contents of my gift to her. My hope is that you do not find in this gesture any account of vindictiveness, because I myself do not know which of my writings have been transformed by my magical encounter with the Sejarah Melayu. Great literature, and friendships, are often created by things that are indefinable. I am certain that you yourself, on that fateful day, might not have known what you were doing when you passed the book to my friend, or even exactly, why.
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