It was one fine mid-morning in late August when the news broke: My English teacher had died.
Mr Tan Teong Leong was one of my school's leading lights and a true champion. That his passing touched off an immediate outpouring of grief and tributes from all corners of the country is a testament to a near-cult following among his ardent students.
He was a teacher like no other, delivering with passion and aggression, as if English was more than life and death. I've to admit that the things I now read and write owe in large measure to his tenacious teaching and selfless single-mindedness. His brand of breathless old-school English will keep burning bright and shining us on like the proverbial eternal flame.
I was blessed to have him as my English teacher from Form Three through Form Five at my school in Tiger Lane, Ipoh. Mr Tan had been teaching here since January 1958. I'd never know exactly how many students he'd trained by the time he retired in 1993. My guess is three thousand, give and take, who'd since grown up and flourished in their chosen careers. Teachers, soldiers, lawyers, ministers, doctors, I could fill a page, easy. Some are famous, some are rich, and some, like me, are retired. But whoever or whatever we are, we share one common denominator: our English teacher.
I'd very much like to claim that I know everything there's to know about him. But I actually know very little, or maybe nothing. All I know is that he was our English teacher. He was physically unimposing to begin with. The standard was pretty high at the time when Kirk Douglas ruled the box office. But his coiffed hairdo and crisply pressed white shirts, matching dark pants and sharp shoes were all hallmarks of a teacher and a gentleman with a fine taste and an obsession with detail. He wasn't an enigma in any way, it's just that his relentless English energy seemed to precede and obscure everything else. So we took him for granted. It's like we'd known him enough and all only from his English classes.
Learning a language is no walk in the park. But in Mr Tan's hands English language was livelier than Liverpool Football Club. The tortuous subject came alive as he pulled us through the full glory, intricacy and insanity of the language. He'd dazzle us with puns, word-plays and double-speaks, and end his class with something for us to take home, you know, some wacky words, like "onomatopoeia". Go ahead and Google if you're too old to remember anything. You'd hear his purrs and hisses.
He was a teacher like no other, delivering with passion and aggression, as if English was more than life and death. I've to admit that the things I now read and write owe in large measure to his tenacious teaching and selfless single-mindedness. His brand of breathless old-school English will keep burning bright and shining us on like the proverbial eternal flame.
I was blessed to have him as my English teacher from Form Three through Form Five at my school in Tiger Lane, Ipoh. Mr Tan had been teaching here since January 1958. I'd never know exactly how many students he'd trained by the time he retired in 1993. My guess is three thousand, give and take, who'd since grown up and flourished in their chosen careers. Teachers, soldiers, lawyers, ministers, doctors, I could fill a page, easy. Some are famous, some are rich, and some, like me, are retired. But whoever or whatever we are, we share one common denominator: our English teacher.
I'd very much like to claim that I know everything there's to know about him. But I actually know very little, or maybe nothing. All I know is that he was our English teacher. He was physically unimposing to begin with. The standard was pretty high at the time when Kirk Douglas ruled the box office. But his coiffed hairdo and crisply pressed white shirts, matching dark pants and sharp shoes were all hallmarks of a teacher and a gentleman with a fine taste and an obsession with detail. He wasn't an enigma in any way, it's just that his relentless English energy seemed to precede and obscure everything else. So we took him for granted. It's like we'd known him enough and all only from his English classes.
Learning a language is no walk in the park. But in Mr Tan's hands English language was livelier than Liverpool Football Club. The tortuous subject came alive as he pulled us through the full glory, intricacy and insanity of the language. He'd dazzle us with puns, word-plays and double-speaks, and end his class with something for us to take home, you know, some wacky words, like "onomatopoeia". Go ahead and Google if you're too old to remember anything. You'd hear his purrs and hisses.
The mere mention of his name among us old boys would tease out a tale or two. We'd occasionally flounder and fall like an English patient, and as to why he didn't get that sweet and twisting pinch patented remains a burning question to this day. Despite his verbal riches and his vibrant way with words, he'd favour simple and straightforward English over complicated and contrived stuff any time of the day. Once I tried to show off with the flashy "dilapidated" in a Form Five composition. He struck it out with screaming red ink and scrawled "old" in its place followed by five exclamations. I could imagine him up in arms and yelling and stabbing an imaginary me with all his mortal might.
Evidence and anecdotes of his love and mastery of the crazy language are plentiful. But for the most persuasive, look no further than an articulate textbook he'd authored, entitled "English Reading And Comprehension". A dull, pedestrian title, if you asked me, but he was an English teacher, not a marketing guru. I'd urge the hardworking Education Minister to make this gem of a book a mandatory English reference for students, lecturers and all ministers.
The gift he left us isn't so much in what he'd taught us, but the way he'd got us all turned on and sexed up by the language. I wasn't exactly a poster boy at school for the earthly reason that I didn't play Rugby or break the triple jump record. So most teachers only knew me by sight (not pretty, if I'm honest). But Mr Tan got my name right every time and I had the feeling that he quite fancied my work. In hindsight, I thought we also shared a quiet sense of indifference and disbelief towards the Rugby mythology perpetually gripping the school. Anyway, I was greatly encouraged and thanks to him, I landed a C3 for my MCE English. Well, it wasn't a distinction, but it was good enough for a deep Kelantanese who came to this great school with a grand total of three English words: yes, no, sleep.
I went on to two years of Sixth Form where I'd to learn lots of crazy stuff. I'd to read Hikayat Hang Tuah (500 pages) and I'd to memorize all the archaic dialogues between Hang Tuah and everybody else. I was on the brink of going mad. There was no English to study. The closest was a subject called General Paper. As the name suggests, it was a corrupt and catch-all project, a mishmash of current affairs, statistics, English writing, and English football. The teacher was a fine-looking lady but, unlike my English teacher, she wasn't even half-inspiring. But since we were all boys and sexually dead, we still thought we had a good deal. Nobody missed her class. Little surprise that I didn't do that well in GP, and other subjects, if you want to know.
I left the great school in 1973 and didn't meet my English teacher again, not until early August this year - a hiatus of almost half-century. It was all my fault. I could've easily gatecrashed one of our annual Old Boys Weekends in Ipoh and caught up with him. We might even get to talk about (bloody) Rugby, who knew.
We came to know that Mr Tan's was unwell late July this year. Four of us, one-time classmates, including one ex-Headboy, quickly decided on a day trip to Ipoh to visit him. This was long overdue, so I didn't hesitate. We took the ETS, paid 50% and talked non-stop from KL Sentral to Ipoh station. The country had just broken the world record for the oldest Prime Minister, so there's plenty to rave and reflect.
There he was, my English teacher, lying on a chair or recliner or something. Alert and jovial, he'd no problems talking and joking with us. Apparently he was down with some intestinal complications. Science wasn't my strong suit, so the medical term didn't stay with me for long. I introduced myself with full name and the school years, but he couldn't recall, not even remotely. Half a century and three thousand students and I didn't play Rugby, how could he remember.
I handed him a copy of my recently published book "The Asrama Anthology", a collection of nineteen hostel-life stories. It wasn't technically my book because I only wrote two of the stories. He took it, flipped the pages and enquired "What book is this?" I tried my best to impress "Sir, I wrote two stories in this book. It is a best-seller now. Please read and correct my English". He just nodded and laughed. I was serious. I really wanted him to correct my English.
It was, in a way, a happy occasion and we took lots of pictures to take away. But we left feeling somewhat uneasy about his chair or what looked like a hastily organized recliner. Well, he looked comfortable enough with that. But we, his students, also knew all about his partiality for perfection and detail. Call it pangs of penitence or crash of conscience, or simply an outstanding debt hovering high above us. He wouldn't mind something better. He'd given away more than thirty years of his life to the school, cajoling and coaxing us all to speak and write good English.
On the ETS on the way back, we hunkered down again to discuss. This time it was something more serious and useful. One of us floated the idea of crowd-funding among the old boys to buy a new chair or recliner or something comfortable for our English teacher. The good ex-Headboy kicked off the fundraising the very next morning, and in a short space of six days he managed to pool more than enough to buy a better chair.
The chair we'd chosen was a smart and state-of-the art recliner with easy controls and plenty of bells and whistles. I knew Mr Tan would love and approve of this. The beautiful chair was on its way to Ipoh when he passed away. But it was delivered anyway as a gift from all of us old boys and his students to his family.
The news of his passing left me in abeyance before it completely sank in. The air was thick with a shrouding sense of loss. Slumping in my couch and staring blankly ahead, I cast my mind back to the book I'd given him. I could almost picture him, my English teacher, lounging comfortably in the chair, reading my book and correcting my English. It was not to be. The chair was empty.
Evidence and anecdotes of his love and mastery of the crazy language are plentiful. But for the most persuasive, look no further than an articulate textbook he'd authored, entitled "English Reading And Comprehension". A dull, pedestrian title, if you asked me, but he was an English teacher, not a marketing guru. I'd urge the hardworking Education Minister to make this gem of a book a mandatory English reference for students, lecturers and all ministers.
The gift he left us isn't so much in what he'd taught us, but the way he'd got us all turned on and sexed up by the language. I wasn't exactly a poster boy at school for the earthly reason that I didn't play Rugby or break the triple jump record. So most teachers only knew me by sight (not pretty, if I'm honest). But Mr Tan got my name right every time and I had the feeling that he quite fancied my work. In hindsight, I thought we also shared a quiet sense of indifference and disbelief towards the Rugby mythology perpetually gripping the school. Anyway, I was greatly encouraged and thanks to him, I landed a C3 for my MCE English. Well, it wasn't a distinction, but it was good enough for a deep Kelantanese who came to this great school with a grand total of three English words: yes, no, sleep.
I went on to two years of Sixth Form where I'd to learn lots of crazy stuff. I'd to read Hikayat Hang Tuah (500 pages) and I'd to memorize all the archaic dialogues between Hang Tuah and everybody else. I was on the brink of going mad. There was no English to study. The closest was a subject called General Paper. As the name suggests, it was a corrupt and catch-all project, a mishmash of current affairs, statistics, English writing, and English football. The teacher was a fine-looking lady but, unlike my English teacher, she wasn't even half-inspiring. But since we were all boys and sexually dead, we still thought we had a good deal. Nobody missed her class. Little surprise that I didn't do that well in GP, and other subjects, if you want to know.
I left the great school in 1973 and didn't meet my English teacher again, not until early August this year - a hiatus of almost half-century. It was all my fault. I could've easily gatecrashed one of our annual Old Boys Weekends in Ipoh and caught up with him. We might even get to talk about (bloody) Rugby, who knew.
We came to know that Mr Tan's was unwell late July this year. Four of us, one-time classmates, including one ex-Headboy, quickly decided on a day trip to Ipoh to visit him. This was long overdue, so I didn't hesitate. We took the ETS, paid 50% and talked non-stop from KL Sentral to Ipoh station. The country had just broken the world record for the oldest Prime Minister, so there's plenty to rave and reflect.
There he was, my English teacher, lying on a chair or recliner or something. Alert and jovial, he'd no problems talking and joking with us. Apparently he was down with some intestinal complications. Science wasn't my strong suit, so the medical term didn't stay with me for long. I introduced myself with full name and the school years, but he couldn't recall, not even remotely. Half a century and three thousand students and I didn't play Rugby, how could he remember.
I handed him a copy of my recently published book "The Asrama Anthology", a collection of nineteen hostel-life stories. It wasn't technically my book because I only wrote two of the stories. He took it, flipped the pages and enquired "What book is this?" I tried my best to impress "Sir, I wrote two stories in this book. It is a best-seller now. Please read and correct my English". He just nodded and laughed. I was serious. I really wanted him to correct my English.
It was, in a way, a happy occasion and we took lots of pictures to take away. But we left feeling somewhat uneasy about his chair or what looked like a hastily organized recliner. Well, he looked comfortable enough with that. But we, his students, also knew all about his partiality for perfection and detail. Call it pangs of penitence or crash of conscience, or simply an outstanding debt hovering high above us. He wouldn't mind something better. He'd given away more than thirty years of his life to the school, cajoling and coaxing us all to speak and write good English.
On the ETS on the way back, we hunkered down again to discuss. This time it was something more serious and useful. One of us floated the idea of crowd-funding among the old boys to buy a new chair or recliner or something comfortable for our English teacher. The good ex-Headboy kicked off the fundraising the very next morning, and in a short space of six days he managed to pool more than enough to buy a better chair.
The chair we'd chosen was a smart and state-of-the art recliner with easy controls and plenty of bells and whistles. I knew Mr Tan would love and approve of this. The beautiful chair was on its way to Ipoh when he passed away. But it was delivered anyway as a gift from all of us old boys and his students to his family.
The news of his passing left me in abeyance before it completely sank in. The air was thick with a shrouding sense of loss. Slumping in my couch and staring blankly ahead, I cast my mind back to the book I'd given him. I could almost picture him, my English teacher, lounging comfortably in the chair, reading my book and correcting my English. It was not to be. The chair was empty.
