1963, HDB Block 14, Tiong Bahru. Tan Ah Kow, 78,

spends his nights rewiring a broken BBC receiver

into a homemade transmitter, using salvaged

parts from a Japanese officer’s radio he stole

during the Occupation. He doesn’t know it’s

still tuned to a dead frequency—until the night

the Ministry of Information broadcasts the first

national anthem in four languages, live from the

new Broadcasting House.

Ah Kow believes the state is erasing the old

songs—the Malay lullabies his wife hummed, the

Teochew chants his father chanted at the water’s

edge, the Tamil hymns the Indian neighbour sang

during Deepavali. His kiasu spirit isn’t about

grades or jobs. It’s about who gets remembered.

He hacks the broadcast line with copper wire

from his wife’s coffin lining.

The system shuts down at 11:57pm. Alarms blare

in the Ministry. Technicians trace the signal to

his flat. They find the radio glowing, still

transmitting. Not the anthem. Not English. Not

Mandarin.

It plays his wife’s voice singing “Rasa Sayang”

in cracked tones, layered with his father’s

chant, then a child’s voice reciting the Malay

alphabet—his grandson’s first lesson, never

recorded. The machine isn’t broken. It’s

remembering.

The officers don’t arrest him. They leave a

printed notice: “Do not interfere with national

infrastructure.” But they also leave a new

battery, wrapped in a red packet.

Next morning, Ah Kow’s radio is silent. He

doesn’t touch it.

That night, a child from Block 12 swears she

heard three voices singing in the air outside

her window—just before the HDB lights flickered.

No one reports it.

By morning, the radio’s gone. Only the red

packet remains, tucked under the speaker. Inside:

a single dried hibiscus flower, and a note in

shaky Chinese: “They took the air. We kept the

song.”

Ah Kow is buried three days later.

At his funeral, the loudspeaker plays “Rasa

Sayang.” No one knows who ordered it.

The HDB estate still hums at night. Some say if

you press your ear to the old wall near the void

deck, you can hear four languages whispering—

just before the lift doors close.