1978. Kallang Basin HDB Block 43, still damp
from monsoon rains and freshly painted with the
colour of hope. 18yearold Rajan, NS recruit,
assigned to guard the abandoned basement
storeroom—officially “storage for communal tools,
” unofficially where the old folk say the kueh
lapis vendor vanished during the Japanese sweep.
His grandmother slips him a red envelope before
he leaves for camp: “Light the joss sticks every
full moon. Don’t ask why.” He burns them once,
out of guilt, not faith. The smoke smells like
burnt pandan and fish sauce.
That night, his uniform vanishes. Not stolen.
Gone. No footprints. No forced lock. Just the
smell of wet earth and the faint clink of a
brass bell—like the ones at the Malay graveyard
behind Tiong Bahru. He reports it. His sergeant
rolls his eyes. “NS men lose more than socks.
Get a new one.” But the replacement uniform
hangs too tight. Too cold. The fabric doesn’t
breathe. It doesn’t fit him anymore.
On the third night, Rajan finds his name carved
into the basement wall—not with a knife, but
with fingernails. Beneath it, a single white
joss paper, folded into a boat. He remembers his
grandfather’s last words before the stroke:
“They took the land. We gave the ghosts the
names. They kept the names.” The ancestral
worship wasn’t for peace. It was a ledger. Names
paid in silence. For every house built on
cleared kampong soil, a soul had to be left
behind. The British didn’t just evict—they
unmade the spirits’ anchors. The Chinese, Malays,
Indians all lit joss sticks. But only one family
kept the pact.
Rajan’s grandfather was the last keeper. The
ghost isn’t angry. It’s collecting. The rules
bite: if the bloodline stops paying, the spirit
takes the next male heir. Not to kill. To
replace. To wear the uniform. To become the next
guard.
He digs. Finds a rusted tin under the floorboard.
Inside: a faded list. 1942. 1945. 1961. Each
name marked with a date and a place. His
grandfather’s. His father’s. And now his. The
ghost doesn’t want revenge. It wants continuity.
The world mechanism is simple: colonial land
theft didn’t end with independence. It just
moved underground. Every HDB block built on old
graves? A new altar. A new debt.
On the night of his final parade, Rajan doesn’t
wear the new uniform. He walks down to the
basement alone. He lights three joss sticks. He
doesn’t speak. He peels off his shirt. Places
his father’s old NS armband on the wall beside
his name. The air chills. The bell rings once.
He feels fingers—dry as old bark—brush his
shoulder. The uniform he wore before? Now
hanging neatly on the hook. Perfect fit.
He walks out. His sergeant notices nothing. The
next recruit arrives next week. The joss sticks
still burn every full moon. Only now, they burn
in two places.
