1957. At 18, Raju joins NS not for glory but to

escape his father’s ghost in a kampongturnedHDB

flat in Geylang. The flat still smells of

turmeric and old sorrow. His mother, gone three

years, left behind a tin of her signature kueh

lapis — the kind only she made with betel leaf

ink and coconut milk blessed by a Malay makcik.

The tin sits untouched on the top shelf, wrapped

in newspaper that smells like rain and silence.

The rule: no one touches the tin. Not even his

sister. Not even during Hari Raya. The army gave

him three weeks’ leave before posting to Pulau

Tekong. His platoon mocked him for crying when

the bus passed the old opium den near Jalan

Besar. He didn’t cry for the war. He cried

because his father whispered, “You’ll never be

enough,” the night before he vanished into the

Chinese Secret Society purge.

On the last night before departure, Raju climbs

the five flights alone. The lights flicker. The

neighbour’s radio plays a Malay ballad about

lost lovers. He opens the tin. Inside, the kueh

lapis is whole. Unspoiled. Still warm. He takes

one slice. Not to eat. To prove he’s not afraid.

The moment his fingers touch it, the floorboards

groan like the old kampong house. The walls weep

damp stains shaped like faces — his mother’s,

his father’s, the makcik who blessed it. The tin

rattles. A voice, not spoken but felt, hums

through his bones: You took what wasn’t yours to

carry.

He runs. Down the stairs. Past the 1963 HDB

notice pinned to the lift door: “All residents

must surrender heirlooms for national unity

drive.” The rule bites now — the state had just

declared ancestral objects “divisive relics.”

He’s not stealing food. He’s stealing identity.

And the law says it’s treason.

At the bus stop, dawn bleeds pink over the new

estate. He eats the slice. The taste floods him —

not sweet, not bitter, but remembered. His

mother’s hands pressing the layers. His father’s

silence after the police took his uncle. The

makcik’s prayer in Jawi. The kueh doesn’t

dissolve. It settles. Like a stone in his chest.

He boards the bus. No one speaks. He stares out

at the concrete blocks rising where fruit trees

once grew.

The tin is gone. But the kueh remains — inside

him. And the HDB block behind him? It no longer

creaks with ghosts.

It sings.