In search of Raja Bunga
“Who is Raja Bunga?”
With this question echoing in our minds, we began our journey into Geylang Serai. The name had surfaced from a small corner of the internet: a few people reminiscing about a flower seller who would recite pantuns, Malayic oral poetic forms, through a megaphone during the Ramadan Bazaar. Something in their tone—a kind of gentle affection—sparked our curiosity.
Thus began our search for the man behind the memory, armed with little more than curiosity and a vague goal that doubled as a question: could this search reveal more than just the man himself?
We headed over—only to meet another dead end. Then a clothing store, where a worker recommended a man in the store beside hers. “Try him,” she said with confidence. “He might know something.” There, we were greeted by a man who was warm, open, and gracious. Although he wasn’t a local and had never encountered Raja Bunga himself, he went out of his way to help, handing us the name card of a woman who owned a store upstairs.
Our first stop: a jewellery store across the street. The choice felt almost haphazard, a reflection of our uncertainties about the path ahead. Or perhaps it was the hypnotic calm of the blue awnings—emphasised by the reds bordering it—that felt like a hand beckoning out to us.
There, we faced our first setback. The store owner could offer nothing more than a vague acknowledgment that the man had once existed. Still, we didn’t leave empty-handed. He pointed us toward a nearby building and suggested we try the flower shop there.
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At last, in the shop printed on the card, we found someone who remembered him.
The lady spoke of how Raja Bunga brought joy to the crowds at the Ramadan Bazaar with his pantuns—often tongue-in-cheek—over a megaphone. We noticed the little laugh in her voice when we mentioned his name, witnessing the excitement that comes with a shared memory.
We also learned that flowers in Malay culture represent joy, celebration, and ritual, and are important elements of special occasions. Often, they are used to decorate and prepare the home for the festive seasons.
She also shared that the bazaars are not just markets to her but necessary communal spaces where Malays meet, share, and continue their traditions.
We thanked her and left, feeling enriched by her account. Unfortunately, that was our only stroke of luck that day. Raja Bunga remained an indistinct figure to us; more a hazy memory than a man.
Yet as we reflected on our journey, we noticed something remarkable: we had been following an invisible thread running through the people of Geylang Serai, with each connection guided by generosity— every person we met offered help willingly, even while knowing there would be nothing in return. Through the experience, we glimpsed the community that quietly thrives in Geylang Serai.
We saw faces light up at a recognised name or shared memory. In those moments, we witnessed the impact of shared memories; the way they forge brief yet profound connections.
A single oral history or shared memory can offer us insight into broader themes such as connection, community, culture and continuity; much like a single thread unraveling into a wider tapestry of collective life. It tells us of how even the smallest memory holds the potential to lead us toward something greater than ourselves.
In the end, do we really know who Raja Bunga is? Perhaps not. He may forever remain partly a mystery to us, yet in seeking him, we discovered something just as valuable: the generosity of strangers and the quiet power of shared stories, and the way they bind a community together.
Story by: Chereen Goh, Richie Mya, Char Pang, Hwiwon,
Charlotte Lim