The following is an account of an imaginary comrade visiting Singapore, provided by an imaginary reporter purportedly accompanying the comrade and his family:
Firebrand Comrade X (apologies to all those who are named X) puffed out his chest as his plane touched down in the gleaming metropolis of Singapore. Here, in this capitalist paradise, he would witness the excesses of untamed free markets firsthand. He imagined marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, overflowing fountains sculpted from solid gold, and businessmen swimming in pools of melted Swiss bank accounts.
His first stop was a flashy casino. Comrade X, a staunch opponent of bourgeois frivolity, entered with a scowl, determined to expose the moral decay at the heart of Singapore's success. He marched towards a slot machine, the garish lights assaulting his revolutionary sensibilities. But before he could unleash a tirade against the evils of gambling, he found himself inexplicably sinking ankle-deep into a plush red carpet. Furious, he bellowed, "What is this treachery? Are you trying to drown a visiting dignitary in a pool of ill-gotten gains?" Security guards, impeccably dressed and unnervingly polite, rushed over. "A most unusual malfunction, sir," one apologized, ushering him out with practiced efficiency.
Next, Comrade X, eager for a taste of the people's struggle in this capitalist den, decided to visit a hawker centre, a haven for the common folk. He envisioned grimy stalls overflowing with dubious meats and overpriced vegetables. Instead, he was greeted by a dazzling array of culinary delights, the air fragrant with exotic spices. He approached a stall selling satay, his stomach rumbling in defiance of his communist principles. Just as he reached for a skewer, the floor beneath him vanished. With a yelp, he landed in a shallow puddle of what smelled suspiciously like chili sauce. Spluttering and red-faced, he was helped up by a group of bemused hawkers. "Wet floor, comrade?" one chuckled.
Humiliated but determined, Comrade X decided to visit the famed Gardens by the Bay, a testament to Singapore's decadent horticultural pursuits. He envisioned monstrous, genetically modified flora, reeking of artificial fertilizers and devoid of natural beauty. Instead, he found himself surrounded by breathtaking super-trees, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Mesmerized, he took a step forward, only to find his foot meet with a surprising resistance. He looked down to see a perfectly manicured lawn, not a single blade out of place. Confused, he took another step, and another, each step met by the same invisible barrier. He was trapped, walking on a seemingly solid surface that was demonstrably not.
Suddenly, a memory from his childhood flickered in his mind. His grandfather, a man steeped in the tales of Mahabharata, would often regale him with stories of the Pandavas' magnificent palace in Indraprastha. There was a hall, he recalled, built by the celestial architect Maya, where the floor appeared solid but was actually an illusion, filled with water. The Kaurava princes, Duryodhana and his brothers, unfamiliar with the palace's intricacies, had famously fallen prey to this trickery, much to the amusement of the Pandavas.
A cold sweat broke out on Comrade X’s forehead. Was Singapore, with its invisible water hazards and deceptive solidity, playing a similar trick on him? Was this a capitalist ploy to mock his communist ideology? The more he thought about it, the more the parallel seemed plausible. He left the Gardens by the Bay a broken man, forever haunted by the memory of a trip where reality itself seemed to be a product of the free market. Perhaps, he mused on the flight back, there was something to be said for a system where the water was demonstrably wet, and the floors, refreshingly solid, even if they weren't built by celestial architects. Something to try back home, Comrade X thought, and perhaps more importantly an investment opportunity for the Malayali diaspora (NRKs) amidst half a dozen global conferences.