Air India, of which Lee once thought so highly, represented all that was wrong with India. There was much that he still admired—India's public schools, for instance, and the values that the ICS embodied—but he thought Indian other-worldliness, reserved quotas, the three-language formula and the media's obsession with trivia to the exclusion of fundamental issues like economics were some of the serious obstacles to growth. He still wanted India in South-east Asia as a counter to both China and Japan but expectations from the visit by Indira Gandhi, with whom he had an enigmatic relationship, led nowhere. More and more, his thoughts turned to the progress that ancestral China was making. Though Lee says, ‘I am no more a Chinese than President Kennedy was an Irishman,’ there is no denying his immense pride in China's achievements. ‘We are all ethnic Chinese; we share certain characteristics through a common ancestry and culture.’ But ethnic pride does not obscure political judgement. Pride may also be tinged with a complex for, as he told Deng Xiaoping, the Chinese (in China) are ‘the progeny of the scholars, mandarins and literati who had stayed at home’ while Singaporeans are ‘descendants of illiterate, landless peasants from Fujian and Guangdong’. Eu Mun Hoo Calvin, who became high commissioner to India in 2006, is an exception, counting a long line of Ch'ng dynasty notables among his forebears.

China is a touchy subject in India. Japan can be a model for Indians but not China. The ‘competitive cooperation’ Jaswant Singh speaks of may apply at the highest levels where Manmohan Singh's gentle conciliation sets the tone, but Singaporeans are acutely aware that most Indians do not relish the comparison. Mukherjee recalls how his father, a veteran nationalist, grieved in 1962 that the freedom he had fought for was in jeopardy within only fifteen years of independence. Singaporean offers to mediate—Toh Chin Chye suggested a facilitator's role when visiting New Delhi in 1975—were as unproductive as Lee's efforts to goad India by citing Chinese achievements. Yeo found that a ‘very bullish’ speech about China he gave in Bombay quoting a prominent Dubai businessman's claim that Chinese workmen are much more productive than Indians was not well received.

Despite its geographical location at the tip of Malaya, historical links with Britain and an overwhelming Chinese majority, Singapore ‘grew up in the image of Calcutta’. The Indian association was so strong that when Peter Chan Jer Hing was posted in the Singapore high commission in New Delhi in the early 1970s he received letters from simple Indians who spelt ‘Singapur’ like Kanpur, Udaipur or any other town in India. Indians have a sense of eternity but not history, says Lee's old associate, Natwar Singh, diplomat and politician, whose Kunwar prefix speaks of his lordly lineage. And so they looked beyond the recent connection to Suvarnabhumi which gave Singapore its name. The willing retention of the name was, in Rajaratnam's view, the ‘best tribute’ Chinese Singapore could ‘pay to India and her civilization’. He might have mentioned another Lion City (Simhapura), capital of the Hindu kingdom of Champa that flourished between the seventh and fifteenth centuries, now lost under a Catholic church in the provincial bustle of Tra Kieu in central Vietnam. Stranded in an Islamic sea after the tide of Indian culture receded from the Malayan peninsula, Singapore might also have been obliterated but for British rule followed by the Chinese energy and initiative that became the economy's driving force.

The British treated Singapore as a fragment of the Bengal Presidency, the human capital of thousands of Indians who went there under British aegis sustaining a sense of familiarity. A ‘wizened and white-haired’ ancient, who claimed to be 102 years old, the son of an early convict, proved Natwar Singh's point when David Marshall was threatening to resign as chief minister if Britain did not grant Singapore independence. The old man pleaded with him to stay on. ‘Indians built up Singapore and it belongs to Indians,’ he said. ‘As a descendant of our race, you should not resign!’ The emotional and excitable Marshall was not Indian though his folk ‘were an extension of the long-established Jewish community in Calcutta’.

False signals, both optimistic and pessimistic, continued to bedevil the relationship. Rajiv Gandhi's accession prompted Singaporean hopes of a new era of liberal economics. Goh Chok Tong's succession encouraged Indian fears of a touchy and suspicious Singapore. In the event, neither hopes nor fears were realized, and business continued much the same though race attitudes threatened for a time to complicate the controversy over illegal immigration.

If foreign workers had been provided with comfortable quarters and a congenial clubhouse, Mandarin-speaking PAP backbencher Choo Wee Khiang would not have had occasion to grumble that Little India—where Indian and Bangladeshi labourers congregate massively on Sunday afternoons—is in ‘complete darkness (hei qi qi) not because there is no light but because there are too many Indians around.’ The warning some years later by another ruling party politician, Tan Cheng Bock, that Singaporeans felt ‘threatened’ by Lee's proposal to relax immigration rules to attract more foreigners touched a raw nerve amidst unemployment fears in the wake of the 1997 economic crisis. That the Chinese MP had his finger on the public pulse was proved two years later when he won by the largest margin in the 2001 elections. At another level, there was a furore over the ‘racially insensitive’ podcast of two Chinese customers asking for pork in an Indian-Muslim restaurant.

These undercurrents of race tension did not explode only because of Lee's iron discipline. But they should have enabled Harry Chan, the MFA's permanent secretary and thus the seniormost career diplomat to be sent as high commissioner, to appreciate India's ethnic nuances. He had been a civil servant in British Singapore when there were no computers or air conditioning, when fans had to be switched off to conserve energy, envelopes and carbon paper were re-used and—most significant—there was no socializing with British colleagues outside the office. Asians were not allowed into sanctuaries like the Tanglin Club. ‘It was a different world.’

The study of China-Myanmar relations has largely been undertaken from the Chinese point of view; this can partially be attributed to the fact that more work has been done on Chinese historical sources, and secondly to the general consensus among scholars working on Southeast Asia–China interactions that Chinese sources are more reliable than their Southeast Asian counterparts. It is not the aim of this chapter to counteract the latter view; it argues instead that rather than discrediting certain texts by highlighting their inaccuracies, a more important goal may be to treat these texts as media which reflect the perceptions of their creators and by extension, the people for whom they wrote. Southeast Asian primary texts have only recently been perceived as informative sources, partially because of the language barrier; most Southeast Asian languages, especially Burmese, are not easily learned. There are fewer English translations of Burmese texts than other major Southeast Asian languages. To date, there are only two English translations of Burmese chronicles: the Glass Palace Chronicle (English translation of a relatively brief section of the Hmannan Yazawindawgyi, compiled in 1829) and the Zinmeh Chronicle (the Burmese version of the Chiangmai Chronicle). A number of Burmese chronicles, some still on palm-leaf manuscript (pe sa), remain untranslated. The primary sources used for this paper are: U Kala's Mahayazawingyi, Twinthin Taikwun Mahasitthu's Mahayazawinthit, and the Hmannan Yazawindawgyi. These texts will form the focus of the discussion of Myanmar-China relations.

Other Burmese sources such as the Bagan Yazawin, Yazadharit Ayedawpon, and the Yazawunthalini [New Bagan Chronicle] will be used when necessary to inform discussion of a particular theme or event. Even though most of these chronicles can only be dated to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, descriptions of Burmese perceptions of their relations with Tarup (China) extracted from these sources represent invaluable reflections of indigenous views of their foreign neighbour. These views can contribute to a more balanced observation of Myanmar-China relations over a period of several centuries from Tagaung (mid-first millennium CE) to Hanthawati-Taungngu of the sixteenth century.

India's Look East Policy is now a decade and half old. Its path, vigour and promise has given us renewed confidence in India's Asian destiny. Without doubt, this is Asia's century and India is proud to be part of an energetic process that has seen impressive growth across the continent. In this historical evolution in the new century, leaders across the continent have contributed, learnt with experience and evolved new approaches.

Amongst those leaders, the name of Lee Kuan Yew must rank near the top. A distinguished statesman and a system designer par excellence, Lee Kuan Yew has always impressed me with his determination, which is suffused with deep insights into the world around him. Having steered Singapore with a focus that is unique, he has today become a living legend for enabling growth through entrepreneurship and clear direction. This book throws light on Lee Kuan Yew's admiration, belief, curiosity and desire for engagement with India over the years. Undoubtedly, his abiding interest in India over the decades, tinged with expectations, finds reflection in some of the achievements that have been posted by India. A mirror image of this multifaceted expectation finds form today as components that have helped craft India's Look East Policy.

That policy, however, is predated by the much more important connection between India and Singapore, which was established more than a thousand years ago. India's ancient links with the region were nurtured on the waves of trade and culture and found both spiritual as well as concrete expression through the architecture of some of the temples in South East Asia, many of which stand to this day. The characteristic Asian treasure of spirituality is one of the strongest contributors to our links. In the current context, this has found expression in the significant support being shown by Singapore for the revival of the Nalanda University. In a way, this is the completion of a virtuous circle enabling us to begin the second chapter of our relationship with greater confidence.

Relations between India and Singapore have always been marked by a significant degree of closeness, not only at the Government level, but in the private sector too.

Responding to the guidelines he had inherited, Goh made history. He abandoned his fear of Indian hegemony, sponsored India for membership of various Asian forums and made a major breakthrough with the Bangalore Information Technology Park. A grateful India invited him to be the first Singaporean guest of honour at New Delhi's Republic Day parade. But the first post-Lee highlevel visit was by Lee's son, future prime minister Lee Hsien Loong while George Yeo was credited with carrying out the most exhaustive practical survey of the prospects for India–Singapore relations. There were disappointments, too, as several ambitious Singaporean proposals foundered on the rock of India's traditional suspicion of foreigners. But movement was forward and that was largely because Narasimha Rao also made history by opening India to the world, meaning the United States with which he sought economic and strategic ties after decades of frosty neglect. He also made history by being the first Indian prime minister to be invited to deliver the Singapore Lecture when Lee compared him with China's Deng Xiaoping.

Narasimha Rao inherited a bankrupt exchequer when Rajiv Gandhi's assassination pushed him centre stage as he was packing his bags to retire to his native Hyderabad. Few took him seriously. ‘When in doubt pout’ was one of the less impolite gags about the new prime minister. Rajiv's drive for modernization had boomeranged. Lavish imports of capital goods had created a huge balance of payments deficit compounded by the high cost of fuel and fertilizer, the end of rupee trade with the Soviet Union, the first Iraq war and suspension of workers’ remittances from the Gulf. Foreign exchange reserves dwindled to US$1.1 billion, while foreign debts soared to US$70 billion. India was in crisis but the new premier lived up to the Chinese spelling of the word with two ideograms meaning danger and opportunity. He combined an acute strategic sense with a disarming turn of phrase. ‘I will follow the Nehru line,’ he told this writer after taking over, pre-empting charges of jettisoning cherished Nehruvian principles by adding, ‘Manu the lawgiver gave the law but it was up to each Brahmin to interpret it.’

“Connecting” and “distancing” have been two prominent themes permeating the writings on the historical and contemporary developments of the relationship between Southeast Asia and China. As neighbours, the nation-states in Southeast Asia and the giant political entity in the north communicated with each other through a variety of diplomatic overtures, political agitations, and cultural nuances. The people felt a need to connect even in the worst of times when governments were not on the best of terms. “Connecting” is a two-way street. It denotes a deep influence of Chinese presence in the region since the sixteenth century in the areas of trade, culture and politics, as well as Southeast Asia's enduring bewilderment and perplexity about its giant neighbour. The rise of China and the recent influx of Chinese immigrants in the region added to the already influential and considerable presence of China. In the last two decades with the rise of China as an economic powerhouse in the region, Southeast Asia's need to connect with China has become more urgent and necessary as it attempts to reap the benefit from the successful economic modernization in China.

At the same time, however, there were feelings of ambivalence, hesitation and even suspicions on the part of the Southeast Asian states vis-à-vis the rise of a political power which is so little understood or misunderstood. Much of these negative thoughts admittedly were remnants of historical experiences; some are possibly even related to the growing soft and hard power influence of the People's Republic of China. “Distancing”, therefore, refers to the attitudes and policies of these nations’ attempts to maintain their sovereign rights as well as political and cultural autonomy in the midst of a rising empire and regional hegemonic power.

To a large extent, the perpetual tensions between idealist expectation and realist necessity have defined Sino-Southeast Asia relations in the last few decades. How Southeast Asia and China should best deal with one another becomes a central question in this complex relationship.

INTRODUCTION

This chapter examines Vietnamese strategies in maintaining a normal diplomatic relationship with China through the concept of “language power”. This notion of “language power” comprises both relational rhetoric and taciturnity, and can be applied both on state and non-state levels. Most previous literature on Vietnam-China relationships focus on the themes of persistent Vietnamese resistance against Chinese dominance and the Vietnamese fighting spirit. This chapter argues that besides resistance, Vietnam is also adept in crafting diplomacy to pacify the ambition of its giant neighbour and maintain a relatively peaceful and harmonious relationship. Since the normalization of the China-Vietnam diplomatic relations in 1991, both Vietnam and China have undertaken a pragmatic interactive strategy with an eye to the economic benefits that stability and peace may bring. The language power analysed in this chapter demonstrates that such an effort enlisted by the Vietnamese particularly since 1999 has been part of the normalized diplomatic rituals in both official and civil spheres.

The chapter will firstly relate Vietnam to China in terms of its cultural and political relationships. It will dilate the arguments of the previous literature and point out that some of these views have been mistaken. In the second half of the chapter, the concept of “language power” will be elaborated. Part of this language power engages routinized intimacy and friendship rhetoric painstakingly displayed by state actors as well as laypeople. In contrast to the tactical display of the relational rhetoric in different social and political interactive spaces with the Chinese, the Vietnamese also employ the power of “silencing” on historical conflicts. Language power does not merely enlist the power of speeches, it also takes on the action of taciturnity. Silence can be power.

To illustrate this analytical space, I rely heavily on the border as both a geo-historical and metaphoric plane to explore the theme of “language power”. The “border” as a conceptual and geographical space has generated lots of conflicts as well as intimacy between China and Vietnam.

Asean linked the Vietnam–Cambodia controversy to its perceptions of Soviet aims in Asia. India saw it in terms of China which supported an increasingly Islamized and unstable Pakistan with, in Lee's view, a ‘visceral’ hatred of India. He does not think China will ever give up on Pakistan just as he does not think Pakistanis need Chinese encouragement to mount terrorist attacks against India. India–Singapore relations were further bedevilled by reports of clandestine traffic in men and merchandise but Cambodia remained the major headache, with Lee's philosophical understanding of Indira Gandhi's motives not affecting sharp exchanges at lower levels.

No other South-east Asian government was as strident as Singapore in lobbying against Vietnam and the People's Republic of Kampuchea. Singapore's superior debating skill and command of English was one reason, but Singapore was also staunchly pro-Western. Malaysia was less anti-Soviet, and Brajesh Mishra does not think Indonesia, which was deeply suspicious of China, joined the campaign at all. But Singapore was relieved when Indira Gandhi seemed in no hurry to redeem her promise to recognize Heng Samrin, and took the lead in acting on India's pending memorandum to Asean. The result was a meeting of officials—the first of its kind—four months after Indira Gandhi's return to power when Asean Secretary-General Ali bin Abdullah and the five regional representatives met with a senior Indian diplomat, Eric Gonsalves, in Kuala Lumpur in May. The calm did not last long, and Rajaratnam's high-pitched rhetoric and the fervent advocacy of an MFA booklet, From Phnom Penh to Kabul, were continued in another Singapore publication denouncing the Havana summit as the ‘lowest point of degradation’, and melodramatically asking India to rescue NAM ‘from the brothel area into which it had wandered.’

Then followed the fiasco of Asean's thirteenth ministerial meeting in Kuala Lumpur on 25–26 June, to which India was invited. A patronizing press release ‘noted with satisfaction that Asean has expanded its dialogue to include developing countries as evidenced in the start of the Asean-India Dialogue’. Indonesian Foreign Minister Mochtar Kusumaatmadja also announced that Asean was engaging in its first dialogue with a developing country.

When Lee Kuan Yew met Rahul Gandhi for the first time, the veteran Singaporean told India's political fledgling, ‘I knew your father, your grandmother and your great-grandfather!’ Lee was eighty-three; Rahul thirty-six. History was repeating itself— almost—after a forty-three year interlude. ‘Seventy-three-year old leader got on very well indeed with thirty-eight-year-old Kuan Yew, and Lee was shocked, pleasantly so, to discover how well Nehru had been briefed about Malaya and Singapore,’ wrote Alex Josey, his British press officer who accompanied Lee and his ever-supportive wife, Kwa Geok Choo, on their first official trip to India in 1962.

Unusual in global diplomacy, familial links are especially rare in Asia's volatile politics where leaders come and go like Monsoon storms. Lee is the exception in being able to count four generations of the Nehru–Gandhis as personal friends. Jawaharlal Nehru's India, blazing a political and economic trail from colonialism to selfsufficient Independence, occupied a central place in the vision of a renascent Asia that took him privately to Calcutta, Delhi and Agra three years before the 1962 visit. ‘Amongst the politically aware—what were our models?’ Lee asks forty-seven years after that first visit in 1959 and answers his own question: ‘First, India and Indian nationalists, the Congress Party, and the writings of Nehru and people like Panikkar. We used to get all the books and pamphlets that came out.’

His old friend and colleague, Maurice Baker, Singapore's first high commissioner to India, agrees. Born of an English father and Tamil mother, Baker was at school with Lee and a corporal in the wartime medical unit in which Lee served as a private. While studying in Britain in the 1950s he helped to found the Malayan Forum which catered to students from the entire Malay Peninsula including Singapore. ‘India inspired us,’ Baker says. No wonder the colonial authorities refused to let him teach in any government institution on his return. They regarded him as a subversive.