The 1957 HDB block in Tiong Bahru still had no
lifts, but the walls were painted with chalk
ghosts—children drew them after the Occupation,
to scare off lingering Japanese soldiers. By
1963, the ghosts stayed because the new flats
smelled like wet concrete and forgotten prayers.
Chua Beng Huat, 19, got his NS callup letter on
the same day his auntie, Mui, buried her third
husband. She didn’t cry. She cooked three bowls
of nasi kunyit, sprinkled them with ground betel
nut, and whispered to the ceiling: “If you want
a man, take him. But don’t make him speak like a
kampung radio.”
Beng Huat ate the rice. Not out of hunger. Out
of guilt. His auntie had slapped him for
skipping the Hungry Ghost Festival. He thought
she was being superstitious. He didn’t know the
rice was laced with the last breath of her
husband’s Malay cousin, who died during the Sook
Ching purge—and whose soul still remembered how
to pray in three tongues.
Next morning, Beng Huat woke up screaming in
Tamil. Then Mandarin. Then Jawi. His Malay
girlfriend, Aisyah, found him reciting the Quran
backwards while eating kaya toast with his hands.
His Chinese girlfriend, Li Mei, caught him
chanting Hokkien folk rhymes over her mother’s
ancestral tablet.
Auntie Mui didn’t panic. She lit three joss
sticks—one for each spirit—and dumped a whole
bottle of arrack into the sink. “They’re arguing
over who gets him,” she said. “That’s why he’s
talking like a hawker stall on Chinese New Year.
”
The rules were simple: eat ghost rice during the
Nine Nights? You become a vessel. Speak more
than one tongue? You owe three families. Try to
pick one girlfriend? The spirits take your
future.
Beng Huat tried to run. He boarded a bus to
Pasir Ris, hoping to escape. At the stop, a
woman in a red cheongsam handed him a packet of
satay. He took it. When he bit into it, the meat
tasted like salted fish and jasmine. He wept.
That night, Aisyah brought him a copy of the
Quran. Li Mei brought him a red envelope with a
photo of his ancestors. Auntie Mui brought both
girls a plate of kueh lapis. “Eat,” she said.
“If you don’t, he’ll start speaking to the void—
and then we all go mad.”
They ate together.
By dawn, Beng Huat could speak only English.
Clean. Flat. No accents. No ghosts.
Auntie Mui smiled. “Good. Now you can join the
army without confusing the sergeants.”
The next week, he shipped out for NS.
But in every new barracks, the boys swear—when
the lights go out—he hums three different
lullabies at once.
And if you leave rice on your plate?
It’s always gone by morning.
