<TABLE id=msgUN cellSpacing=3 cellPadding=0 width="100%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD id=msgUNsubj vAlign=top>
Coffeeshop Chit Chat - Indian FT lady from SPH luvs Singapore</TD><TD id=msgunetc noWrap align=right>
Subscribe </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><TABLE class=msgtable cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="96%"><TBODY><TR><TD class=msg vAlign=top><TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%" border=0><TBODY><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgbfr1 width="1%"> </TD><TD><TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 border=0><TBODY><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgF noWrap align=right width="1%">From: </TD><TD class=msgFname noWrap width="68%">kojakbt22 <NOBR>
</NOBR> </TD><TD class=msgDate noWrap align=right width="30%">11:24 pm </TD></TR><TR class=msghead><TD class=msgT noWrap align=right width="1%" height=20>To: </TD><TD class=msgTname noWrap width="68%">ALL <NOBR></NOBR></TD><TD class=msgNum noWrap align=right> (1 of 1) </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></TD></TR><TR><TD class=msgleft width="1%" rowSpan=4> </TD><TD class=wintiny noWrap align=right>2071.1 </TD></TR><TR><TD height=8></TD></TR><TR><TD class=msgtxt><TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 width="100%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD>Nov 2, 2008
THE EX-PAT FILES
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : start --></TD></TR><TR><TD>Opening up to a new city
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : end --></TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- Author --></TD></TR><TR><TD class="padlrt8 georgia11 darkgrey bold" colSpan=2>By Nilanjana Sengupta
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- show image if available --></TD></TR><TR vAlign=bottom><TD width=330>
</TD><TD width=10>
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
<!-- START OF : div id="storytext"--><!-- more than 4 paragraphs -->It was not easy living alone no matter how much I thought I could do it, and no matter how much my new colleagues and old friends here assured me that I would be just fine.
When I decided to come to Singapore last year, I looked forward to the experience of working with a newspaper in a different country. Living alone was the least of my worries.
When I envisaged living on my own, I imagined a home out of Ikea's catalogues with a verandah that looked down to a waterbody of vague proportions.
White curtains, wooden floor and furniture with white upholstery lent it a casual elegance. And a 39-inch TV set would be playing Hindi programmes and keeping me from missing home in Mumbai too much.
That's not all. The building would also have its own security guards.
Security guards were an important feature. I grew up in four different cities in India (thanks to my father's mobile job), and all our homes came equipped with security staff.
Anyway, I had to soon bid the vision goodbye. Rentals had hit the roof when I arrived here in April last year, and this meant I had to look for something basic to fit my budget.
It took almost two weeks of frantic house hunting before I settled on a second-level apartment in an old HDB block in Yishun.
After rejecting a flat opposite the office in Toa Payoh because it had garish red doors and another in the heart of Ang Mo Kio because the bathing area in the bathroom was too small, this was a pleasant surprise.
It had white curtains, nice compact bathrooms and kitchenware from Ikea!
My mother greeted the news that there would be no guards guarding the block where her daughter would be living - alone for the first time in her life - rather calmly. But I did let her know that there was a police post minutes away.
But calming my own nerves was another story.
Living alone during the day, I discovered, was very different from living alone during the night. The same house, the same building and the same noises looked, felt and sounded so different.
For instance, during the day, I would hardly pay attention to the sound of a bottle hurtling its way down the common rubbish chute. At night, however, every time someone chucked rubbish down, the much more magnified sound would have me wake up with a heart-stopping start.
Other noises - of marbles rolling or of furniture being moved, which I have now learnt are not so unusual - played havoc with my sleep and imagination.
Every time I read about a woman being robbed in an HDB lift/stairway/void deck, I would imagine that I was the woman being accosted in the lift/stairway/void deck.
As a result, every time I left work after 11pm, I took the shared office transport which took almost an hour to drop me at my doorstep, because it had to drop others first. If I took the train, it would be only about 15 minutes. Once inside the flat, I would SMS my parents, 'Reached home, gd night'.
My friends laughed at me. I would, too, if I were them. My state of paranoia as soon as the sun set was beginning to irritate me.
After a hard day's work when I should be looking forward to going home, I found myself wishing that the office had obscurely placed sofas where I could camp forever and no would ever know.
One friend took pity on the darkening circles around my eyes and suggested I try taking the train back one night and see for myself if night-time in Singapore was really that scary.
I did what she said. Although I suffered pangs of anxiety for the couple of minutes I was alone on the platform, when the train arrived, I almost jumped for joy.
It was jam-packed with commuters even at 11.30 at night. People were returning from work, tuition classes, the malls. Some were sleeping, a few were talking, others were playing on their PSPs. There was hardly any place to stand except really close to the door. But I did not mind.
I drew strength from the crowd. Together we alighted at the station. Together we took the escalator down, and out we went, each one on his and her own way.
I joined a few people going my way. And looking at my apartment as I neared it, I found that it did not look any different from what it looked like that morning.
For the first time in my one month here, I was finally glad to be home.
It was so simple. The minute I was able to open up to the city, it opened up to me and took me in. And this would not have been possible in that picture perfect, but isolated, vision I had for a home.
I have come to accept the noises. They are an indication that there are people around. And sometimes, (I hope no one back home is reading this) I even forget to lock the front door and realise it only in the morning when I go to get the newspaper.
The writer is an Assistant to the Editor at The Straits Times Foreign Desk. She has been in Singapore for one and a half years.
[email protected]
</TD></TR><TR><TD> </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
THE EX-PAT FILES
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : start --></TD></TR><TR><TD>Opening up to a new city
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- headline one : end --></TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- Author --></TD></TR><TR><TD class="padlrt8 georgia11 darkgrey bold" colSpan=2>By Nilanjana Sengupta
</TD></TR><TR><TD><!-- show image if available --></TD></TR><TR vAlign=bottom><TD width=330>
</TD><TD width=10>
<!-- START OF : div id="storytext"--><!-- more than 4 paragraphs -->It was not easy living alone no matter how much I thought I could do it, and no matter how much my new colleagues and old friends here assured me that I would be just fine.
When I decided to come to Singapore last year, I looked forward to the experience of working with a newspaper in a different country. Living alone was the least of my worries.
When I envisaged living on my own, I imagined a home out of Ikea's catalogues with a verandah that looked down to a waterbody of vague proportions.
White curtains, wooden floor and furniture with white upholstery lent it a casual elegance. And a 39-inch TV set would be playing Hindi programmes and keeping me from missing home in Mumbai too much.
That's not all. The building would also have its own security guards.
Security guards were an important feature. I grew up in four different cities in India (thanks to my father's mobile job), and all our homes came equipped with security staff.
Anyway, I had to soon bid the vision goodbye. Rentals had hit the roof when I arrived here in April last year, and this meant I had to look for something basic to fit my budget.
It took almost two weeks of frantic house hunting before I settled on a second-level apartment in an old HDB block in Yishun.
After rejecting a flat opposite the office in Toa Payoh because it had garish red doors and another in the heart of Ang Mo Kio because the bathing area in the bathroom was too small, this was a pleasant surprise.
It had white curtains, nice compact bathrooms and kitchenware from Ikea!
My mother greeted the news that there would be no guards guarding the block where her daughter would be living - alone for the first time in her life - rather calmly. But I did let her know that there was a police post minutes away.
But calming my own nerves was another story.
Living alone during the day, I discovered, was very different from living alone during the night. The same house, the same building and the same noises looked, felt and sounded so different.
For instance, during the day, I would hardly pay attention to the sound of a bottle hurtling its way down the common rubbish chute. At night, however, every time someone chucked rubbish down, the much more magnified sound would have me wake up with a heart-stopping start.
Other noises - of marbles rolling or of furniture being moved, which I have now learnt are not so unusual - played havoc with my sleep and imagination.
Every time I read about a woman being robbed in an HDB lift/stairway/void deck, I would imagine that I was the woman being accosted in the lift/stairway/void deck.
As a result, every time I left work after 11pm, I took the shared office transport which took almost an hour to drop me at my doorstep, because it had to drop others first. If I took the train, it would be only about 15 minutes. Once inside the flat, I would SMS my parents, 'Reached home, gd night'.
My friends laughed at me. I would, too, if I were them. My state of paranoia as soon as the sun set was beginning to irritate me.
After a hard day's work when I should be looking forward to going home, I found myself wishing that the office had obscurely placed sofas where I could camp forever and no would ever know.
One friend took pity on the darkening circles around my eyes and suggested I try taking the train back one night and see for myself if night-time in Singapore was really that scary.
I did what she said. Although I suffered pangs of anxiety for the couple of minutes I was alone on the platform, when the train arrived, I almost jumped for joy.
It was jam-packed with commuters even at 11.30 at night. People were returning from work, tuition classes, the malls. Some were sleeping, a few were talking, others were playing on their PSPs. There was hardly any place to stand except really close to the door. But I did not mind.
I drew strength from the crowd. Together we alighted at the station. Together we took the escalator down, and out we went, each one on his and her own way.
I joined a few people going my way. And looking at my apartment as I neared it, I found that it did not look any different from what it looked like that morning.
For the first time in my one month here, I was finally glad to be home.
It was so simple. The minute I was able to open up to the city, it opened up to me and took me in. And this would not have been possible in that picture perfect, but isolated, vision I had for a home.
I have come to accept the noises. They are an indication that there are people around. And sometimes, (I hope no one back home is reading this) I even forget to lock the front door and realise it only in the morning when I go to get the newspaper.
The writer is an Assistant to the Editor at The Straits Times Foreign Desk. She has been in Singapore for one and a half years.
[email protected]
</TD></TR><TR><TD> </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
