The ceiling tiles crack open in the middle of
the night, rainwater pooling on the linoleum
floor of Block 17, Chua Chu Kang. She stumbles
out of bed — barefoot, head throbbing — not
knowing her name, only that the rice cooker is
still on and the door to Unit 3B is locked from
the outside.
Her father, rigid in his khaki uniform, stands
at the doorway of the shared corridor, eyes
fixed on the number plate. He doesn’t speak, but
his hand gestures sharply: Do not enter. Do not
look. The air tastes like burnt durian and old
cement. This isn’t her home. It’s a warren of
inherited fears.
She finds a note tucked inside a tiffin box —
“No one leaves before breakfast.” The fridge
hums with silence. No food. Only a stack of
halfrotted nasi lemak wrapped in banana leaf,
labeled with her handwriting. But she doesn’t
remember writing it.
The kiasu spirit takes form in the way things
are hidden: the extra key behind the sink, the
loose floorboard under the mattress, the wall
panel that opens to reveal ration coupons
stamped ‘Japanese Occupation’ and ‘British
Repatriation’. Each item is stored for future
use, never meant to be found. Her father built
this system to survive, not to live.
She steps into the communal toilet stall — the
lights flicker. A child’s voice whispers from
the pipe: “Mama said don’t touch the tap after
dark.” The water runs black. When she pulls the
handle, the pipe bursts, flooding the room. But
the real flood comes when she sees her own face
in the cracked mirror — not hers, but someone
else’s, older, wearing a sarong and trembling
under a British helmet.
The next morning, the building is silent. All
the families have vanished. Only her father
remains, sitting crosslegged on the stairs,
counting fivecent coins with surgical precision.
He raises one finger. One more rule.
She checks the cupboard. Inside: a single packet
of instant noodles, dated 1948. Beneath it, a
letter in Malay: “If you read this, you’ve
already lost.”
She tears the paper. The words vanish as soon as
they’re read.
At noon, the building shakes. The lift shaft
groans. The fire escape collapses into dust. She
runs — past Unit 2A where the walls bleed ink,
past Unit 4C where the windows show nothing but
a crowd of men in colonial uniforms standing in
a line.
She reaches the rooftop. The sky is full of
smoke. A lone radio broadcasts the 1946 news
bulletin: “Singaporean independence now
pending…”
She remembers then: the bomb shelter beneath the
block. The secret tunnel. The promise made —
never to forget.
She drops the packet of noodles. It explodes
into ash.
The ground splits open. Not soil. A pile of old
identity cards. One reads: “Female. Born 1941.
Status: Survived.”
She picks it up. Her name appears in faded ink.
Below, the entire HDB block begins to glow. The
lights snap on. Doors unlock. Voices call from
inside.
She steps forward.
And the first thing she says — to no one — is:
“Next time, I’m keeping the rice.”
