In 1947, a MalayChinese woman sold her kampong
plot in Tiong Bahru to a British officer for a
tin of condensed milk, signing with a thumbprint
while her son hid behind the storeroom curtain.
The officer never filed the deed. The land
became a British military compound. She died of
fever before the war ended.
In 1963, the compound was razed for HDB Block 42,
Serangoon Gardens. The woman’s grandson, now a
quiet clerk, filed a claim — it vanished in a
fire at the Land Office. His name was erased
from all registers. His daughter, the only one
who remembered the thumbprint, never spoke of it
again.
By 2021, the grandson’s son, Uncle Rahim, 78,
still patrols Block 42 every dawn. He checks for
unlicensed hawkers, broken lifts, and stray cats.
He carries a rusted kerosene lantern — his
wife’s last gift, lit every night since she
passed. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. But he
sees her sometimes: a woman in a faded kebaya,
standing by the old well, holding a tin can.
The well was dug in 1952, over the old boundary
stone. No one remembers who marked it. But every
monsoon, the water turns brackish. Tenants
report cold spots in Unit 42112. A child once
drew a woman on the wall with chalk — eyes like
wet coal, mouth stitched shut with thread.
In June, a new HDB renovation team removes the
old well cover. Beneath it: a tin can, sealed
with wax. Inside, a brittle sheet of paper. The
deed. Signed with a thumbprint. And a note, in
English: “If found, return to the daughter of
Siti binti Haji Mohamad.”
Uncle Rahim knows the name. His mother’s mother.
He does not cry. He walks to the HDB office with
the can. The clerk says, “This is 74 years old.
No legal standing.” The rule bites: colonial
land claims must be filed within two years of
acquisition, or forfeited — unless the original
owner’s direct descendant submits proof before
public land redevelopment. The block was built
in ’63. The claim was never submitted. The rule
expired in 1949.
But the deed was never officially registered.
The land was never legally transferred. The
state never took title.
He files a petition under the Land Titles Act,
Section 12(3), retroactive claim for
unregistered ancestral property. The form takes
three weeks. He fills it by hand. No lawyer. No
relatives. Just his wife’s lantern on the table,
glowing.
On the day the application is stamped “received,
” the ghost appears in his living room. Not as a
woman. As a child — his mother, age six, holding
a doll made of banana leaves. She smiles. Drops
the doll. Walks through the wall.
The next morning, the HDB officer calls. “Sir,
your claim’s been fasttracked. Someone upstairs
flagged it. Found a copy in the old colonial
archives — misfiled under ‘Unclaimed Estates.’”
The land is not returned. The block stands. But
the title is corrected. The woman’s name is
added to the land registry. For the first time
since 1947, her name is official.
That night, Uncle Rahim doesn’t light the
lantern. He leaves it on the windowsill. The
next morning, it’s gone. No ash. No trace.
Only the well remains. And the water? Clean
again.
