When was the last time you looked back at the past couple of decades of life and realised, “Holy crap, I have been living in a foreign country all my life?”

That’s when it dawns upon you, it’s time to change sides, surrender the passport of the country you were born in, embrace the Red passport and pledge allegiance to the Republic of Singapore. As we step out from the ICA building after oath-taking, still smelling like the chilled air-con scent inside the most important building for migrants, we are a bunch of mixed feelings. Happy ones for obvious reasons. Sad ones for technically un-belonging to the country that birthed and bred us before seeking greener pastures. And confused ones, for this transition raises a pertinent question, “Where do I belong?”

But the bright, sunny Singapore morning, scores of maddening office-goers and a busy street outside Lavender MRT are enough distractions to bury any deep thoughts. As we walk past the station gantry in order to celebrate this milestone date with a hearty breakfast, we choose Raffles Place as our destination. But as soon as we alight from the train, we stand there, confused, looking in four different directions, trying to make up our minds on the best exit for a continental breakfast. At this point, however, we probably have our pronounced, over the top, Indian expressions still intact, making us look lost enough to invite the attention of a Singaporean man in his sixties, who seems employed on station duty. Otherwise seen crowd minding, he walks towards us, all smiles and asks,

“Lost?”
To which, my spontaneous, cheerful, Tuesday morning response is,
“No, thanks. We are just trying to decide which exit to pick for a good breakfast”

Little do I realise the overdoes of enthusiasm gurgling through my voice from becoming a new citizen could transpire as a trigger for any regular employee stuck in the rut of some mundane job, ignored by thousands that march the train station daily. Little wonder then, he spruces into action and begins walking along, mentioning not just familiar but favourite names such as ‘Toast Box’.

One look at the girls and I see my family salivating at the thought of polishing thick buttered toast, hard boiled eggs, Kopi Si Siew Dai, Teh C and Ice Milo! Such a steal!

While drooling over the idea of a much loved meal, we have turned oblivious to the man responsible for implanting this daydream into our hungry heads. He, on the other hand has taken it up as his personal prerogative to walk us to the cafe. As soon as I notice him tagging along, I jump back to my senses.
Me: “Oh thanks a lot, we will find our way”

But he is determined. My words fall on deaf ears while he seems to be in love with the idea of going the extra mile to win employee of the month award. Hubby and I exchange giggly glances at hospitality we have never once experienced. This man is on a mission.

The better half tells me, “Maybe it’s time for his coffee break and he is using us as an excuse”

My eyebrows do the talking while the girls are super surprised we get escorted up an escalator in a country that has been home to them ever since their first breath. He, on the other hand is busy playing the national ambassador of  Singapore, leading us up to Toast Box. Unfortunately, as we reach the destined spot, the cafe seems to have shut shop. The man is genuinely shattered. We say our thank you’s and goodbyes to our very own local Santa in a bid to get away politely.

But sometimes, the universe has a plan. He refuses to budge and continues making small talk with the man of the house.
“So where are you from, Kerala?”
“No, Mumbai”

“Oh Mumbai…”, and the conversation seems to spiral, while we now find ourselves at the street level of Raffles Place, an inviting erstwhile arena that smells of purpose and gives birth to the idea of doing something monumental in life. Nostalgia comes raving back at me from all those years I spent marching to work as a promising, young woman, here to conquer the world.

But all hell breaks loose the minute I witness a huge chunk of real estate captured by Providore in the centre of this arena. The four of us wish to bid farewell to the good Samaritan instantly and fly in the direction of Providore at the prospect of a droolicious meal; something we have earned after an early morning appointment of marrying Singapore.

But our devilish angel has plans. He leads us into an alley that has small cafes on both sides, populated by office goers grabbing caffeine before losing their sanity to the daily grind. After cafe hopping about four times, he agrees to leave us between an eggs and toast place on the left and an Indian joint on the right, and mentions pointing at the Indian setup, “this is your food”. And “people from your country eat here”.

He goes on rambling while we have an epiphany.
‘He believes we are tourists!’

To him, we are the lost boys from Peter Pan frantically finding breakfast and we couldn’t possibly do it without a seasoned local guide!

As we stop in our tracks looking rather mesmerized by ‘our food’, we feel gratitude for his kindness in displaying a deep rooted understanding that every person craves their own food no matter what passport they hold. After what feels like eternity, he decides to leave. We thank him profusely, offer him coffee and say amicable goodbyes. Out of sheer respect, we wait for him to get lost in the morning crowd before hitting Providore. For the second time in a single morning, we have experienced intense emotions. We feel great we have signed up as citizens of a country where people can be as kind and hospitable as this man who has gone over and beyond his job description. This was five star treatment to say the least.

But with food on our minds, we tend to think less. We instinctively follow our feet that are gravitating at the speed of thought towards Providore. But less than five steps, and Paul, dolled up and ready for Christmas, sitting on our left catches my eye. Monu, my younger daughter and I are sold. After all, French men and French food are hard to resist. We make a customary check on Providore menu so that the better half and and the first born, Shonu feel they still live in a democracy; then make a sharp left towards Paul that is less than two metres away.

A cosy table for four besides the dainty Christmas tree it is. We cannot wait to flip the menu as our stomachs rumble like Singapore clouds on a wet day. It has been quite a morning. Saying goodbye to our only identity of almost five decades has been heavy to internalize. It will require substantial gluttony with good quality fat and carbs to shove it down our conscience, that for reasons best known to us, we have made our choice. Nope, not an easy one at all.

However, the universe has its own plans a second time round too. As I begin to order like a pro, disappointment quickly seeps in. The basket of assorted bread is unavailable. The Tomato Mozzarella Sandwich will be ready only after 11am and the pasta that we have requested minus the vegan bacon has made its appearance sprinkled with it. But eggs, toast and coffee look divine. Only, as a storyteller the universe makes sure I have a funny tale to tell. The tale of the morning we became Singaporeans…

The bread hiding beneath my eggs and avocado, is too uptight. The good news, it is not gooey nor mushy. The bad news, it is too hard to be cut with the steel knife provided. His Nordic bread on the other hand is perfectly soft and easily sliced. I feel mad. After some struggle, I realise this bread is going to need the brawns, not the brains in order to be cut and consumed with fork and knife. So, I choose to use brutal force. The muscles in my forearm tense as the razor edge of the knife begins to axe off the toasted, buttered bread with formidable strength. And lo and behold, the knife greases through the crust and onto the heavy, ceramic white plate making a deafening noise like a train coming to a screeching halt. The high pitched sound applies brakes on my hands instantly as I look around at the immediate effect of the crescendo my action has created.

Did I forget to tell you how well-mannered the gentry at Paul is? Well dressed workaholics riding their high corporate horses. The kind of people that talk business, speak softly and are ready to kill in order to maintain their social standing. The kind of people that certainly do not visit a Paul with family on a weekday morning in CBD!

A quick glance around, and even the servers refuse to make eye contact with uncanny customers like yours truly. My family on the other hand cannot contain their giggles. I check if my plate has experienced any trauma from my subcutaneous fat attack. What luck, I will not pay for plate and cutlery this morning. Lest I’d need to demand a new citizen discount on the fine imposed.

We continue to chomp ravenously. I choose to move the eggs and avo away from the bread and devour it with my bare claws, afraid I might drive the polished customers up the wall and send the sales volumes plummeting, competing with SGX. If only etiquette and sobriety were mandatory classes in school or part of training to become the good wife, I promise I wouldn’t be telling this tale.

As we carry on ordering piles of food, talking non-stop, my mind keeps going back to thoughts of identity. What does a change of passport mean? Will I stop calling myself Indian overnight? I have Indian written all over me. From my face to my food habits to my thinking. How am I Singaporean then? Is it because I savour Teh C and Tofu as much as my Aloo Paratha and Masala Chai?

While these questions loom large, a server rushes to rob me the pleasure of savouring my food until the very last bite. I reserve no shame in announcing, “I am not done eating”. Then, I turn to my people and wink, “They must think I am poor and haven’t seen food in days. I wish to leave no crumb unturned on this miraculously unbroken plate. It has been quite the survivor.”

As they laugh again, the idea of table manners hits my head hard. Shonu cuts me in and utters, “Since I did not like the pasta with vegan bacon and hardly consumed any, I am sure I come across as pure royalty for wasting so much food. I think we have evened it out Mom”

As we devour every last bit of whipped cream that came along with chocolate eclair, it is time to end the celebration and say goodbye to the better half heading to work. The three of us whisk away on train, my girls amusing fellow commuters by mimicking my Indian-ness and giggling non-stop.

P.S. A little detour, an innocent distraction and plenty of buffoonery can sometimes lift heavy emotions off your chest. Especially, on a day when you change sides. Because I may be a newly minted Singaporean of Indian lineage enjoying French food in the most modern city on Earth. But hey, where do I belong? Truth be told, like the Rojak, I am a confluence of cultures, identities and ideologies. I am the new breed of global that belongs everywhere she goes.