That was the sound that greeted everyone on Sunday, as BTS and subway services partially resumed.

A silent BTS has, in the past month, meant bad news, whether it is the grenade bombing of the Sala Daeng BTS station or the escalation of violence during the impending army crackdown.

It also made life difficult for Bangkok's residents. Many of them have come to depend on their trains for transport. Without it, they either forked out more money for taxis - an unpleasant prospect at a time when the economy has taken a hit - or they walk, sometimes for 2km or more, one local told me.

For me, this meant I no longer had to be held ransom by the motorcycle taxi riders, who could charge whatever they wanted the last few days because motorcycles were the only form of transport into the protest zone.

Even then, it was difficult getting someone to go into the area. Many feared that snipers were still lurking. Getting someone to go in at night, as I did once, required even more persuasion (and money).

So it was a relief to see the trains zipping through town again.

The BTS was not as crowded as it usually is on a weekend when I took a ride on it on Sunday. Some people perhaps were still wary of venturing out. It has only been four days since the city suffered a devastating spate of violence.

The stations were all functioning from 8am to 9pm, except for Ratchadamri, one of the stations located within the sprawling protest zone. It remained closed.

From the vantage point of the BTS, I gained a few fresh perspectives.

For one, I had a clearer view of the damage that was wrought by the red shirt militants last week. I had been to Ratchaprasong in the heart of the protest zone several times since the army crackdown, but I had only been able to see things at ground level.

From the BTS track, however, I could see how badly gutted some of the shoplots in Siam Square were - and how extensive the damage was. In several large lots, only a skeletal metallic structure remained, as the roof was completely scorched.

This picture repeated itself, as we whizzed by the many shops that make up Siam Square.

The reactions of the Thais in my train carriage were equally telling. Many of them turned or rushed towards the windows when they came to the affected areas.

For many of them, this was the first time they had seen the destruction of their city up close - and it was not an easy sight to bear.

One lady told me that she had already seen pictures in the newspapers and prepared herself mentally for what would come. But seeing it for herself, she said, still made her emotional.

They were most affected by the sight of Central World. Once the city's biggest and glitziest mall, a big smouldering crevice now lies in its grand steel-and-glass facade.

Still, they snapped away with their cameras at the wreckage, often posing themselves in the photo. This is to show friends on Facebook, a student said.

Indeed, there were many youths out there among the hundreds of volunteers on Sunday, wielding big brooms to wash away the debris that still remained on the sooty streets. Others used brushes to scrub pillars and hoardings. Yet more were seen going around with trays of drinks, distributing them to thirsty volunteers.

The youths were responding to calls on social media like Facebook and Twitter to do their part for the city, one told me. I saw a person hold up a sign saying: "Clean up Bangkok with unity".

Bangkok now embarks on a journey of recovery. Schools, stock markets and government departments are set to open on Monday, but the famous department stores along Ratchaprasong might take a while longer.

Other malls nearby remained closed, with the exception of the popular MBK. It opened for the first time on Sunday, but closed early at 7pm.

It would be nice to think that life returns to normal in Bangkok on Monday. But the truth is, after the startling events last week, life here will never be the same again.

It was the same story when I got to the hotel.
 
"Don't take our park view rooms, it's very noisy," the receptionist told me. "It's okay, I don't mind the noise," I replied.

"It's dangerous," he retorted. "No problem, I'm not worried."
 
Letting out a long sigh, he finally ended the conversation with a terse warning: "No one is allowed to stay in those rooms. That wing is closed."
 
He then shoved a hotel notice in my face and said: "You read this."
 
It was a laundry list of things hotel guests shouldn't do: Don't open your windows, don't watch the demonstrations, don't go out after 6pm.
 
Dusit Thani, located at the junction of Silom and Rama IV road, has unwittingly found itself in the middle of the Red Shirt demonstration which has crippled the major shopping district in Bangkok.
 
The five-star hotel is located at an intersection across the defence lines of the Red Shirts, who have set up a massive barricade of tyres and sharpened bamboo sticks.
 
The streets are deserted for long stretches and the shops are all shuttered.
 
But journalists have been checking in here, smack right in the heart of the standoff between the authorities and the protesters. It was a five-minute walk to the Red Shirts zone for me to get my bearings when I first arrived.
 
And the park view rooms — had they been available — would have offered a bird's eye view of the protest and alerted us to any imminent clashes.
 
Unfortunately, the journalists coming to Dusit Thani are far outnumbered by the guests who have been swiftly leaving, especially after grenade blasts rocked the intersection, killing one and injuring 86, on Thursday night.
 
On Friday, many guests lined up for early check-outs. The hotel was operating at half-capacity — now it has gone down to a quarter, its staff told me.
 
"I don't think the protesters mean any harm. But our business has been very bad," said one concierge.
 
Dusit Thani itself was not damaged by the blasts, but its entire parking lot has turned into a police zone, teeming with personnel on standby.
 
Steel barricades are set up, cars are carefully checked and every guest is subject to a search when they enter the building.
 
It barely resembles a hotel anymore.
 
But then again, having shopped along the same street two months ago, this barely resembles Bangkok anymore.
 
Read more of Teo Cheng Wee's experiences in The Sunday Times.

Instant noodles can save the world.

As unlikely as it sounds, that's what the top instant noodle makers in the world are aspiring towards, after they ended a two-day conference at the 7th World Instant Noodles Summit in Kuala Lumpur on Wednesday.

Portable, easy-to-cook, cheap and durable, instant noodles could be the part of the answer to food shortage and world hunger, say the members of the World Instant Noodles Association (WINA), who represent 50 major instant noodle companies from around the world.

Their lofty ambition is not without basis. Instant noodles are already part of food relief efforts to natural disaster zones worldwide, WINA chairman Koki Ando pointed out.

Chairman of the World Instant Noodles Association Koki Ando speaks at the 7th World Instant Noodle Summit in Kuala Lumpur. -- PHOTOS: AP

Speaking to reporters, the chief executive of Japanese instant noodle giant Nissin Foods Holdings said that 1.8 million servings of instant noodles were dispatched to these areas in the last two years.

The noodles, usually in shipments of 100,000 to 200,000 packets, travelled to places like Haiti, Padang and Sichuan, often arriving within 48 hours. Helpers are sometimes on hand to help cook the noodles for the disaster victims as well.

By improving their distribution channels, Mr Ando feels that instant noodles can go out to more places and truly fulfill its ambition of being a "world food".

A man picks up a package of Maggi instant noodle made of whole wheat manufactured by Nestle Malaysia at the 7th World Instant Noodle Summit in Kuala Lumpur.

Asia currently propels the global instant noodle market - estimated to be worth some US$25 billion - with an 80 per cent share. The continent's history of eating noodles is part of the reason why it is more popular here.

If instant noodles truly go global, Mr Ando would be continuing the legacy started by his father Momofuku, who invented instant noodles - basically dried noodles fused with oil - in 1958.

From those humble beginnings, the world today chomps through some 92 billion servings of instant noodles (led by China, who contribute to about half of that) a year. Mr Ando reckons it won't be long before they break the 100 billion mark.

But to do that, they also have to win over an increasingly health-conscious public, many of whom see instant noodles as a snack best consumed sparingly.

Changing the unhealthy image of instant noodles is one of the top challenges that faces the industry, WINA acknowledged.

A man picks up a Nissin "Light" cup noodle manufactured in Japan at the 7th World Instant Noodle Summit in Kuala Lumpur.

It said it is committed to cutting down on the sodium content of instant noodles - but manufacturers add that this will have to be done slowly.

"Many consumers like the current taste, so we can't be too dramatic," said Mr Ando.

The next Instant Noodles World Summit takes place in 2012 in China.

I STILL remember my first ride on the LRT - Malaysia's version of the MRT - in Kuala Lumpur, more than a year ago.

Standing at one end of the platform to avoid the masses, I thought to myself: why was everyone crowding in the middle? Wouldn't those carriages be too crowded?

At the same time, the locals were giving me strange stares.

A few minutes later I realised why. The length of the train was only half that of the LRT platform. It zoomed past me towards the centre of the platform. 

I stood at my end, bewildered. Then I made a dash for it.

The rest of the trip completed my LRT experience, as I stood face to armpit with what felt like a million other passengers.

Actually, it was just 400. That was the maximum capacity of the KL's old two-carriage LRT trains, which had been running since 1998. 

So imagine my delight when a new four-carriage train pulled up in town last month (Jan). They were a sight for sore eyes.

I have taken them on a few trips now and they are brighter, more spacious, and even seem to smell better. 

Most importantly, can actually hold large groups of people. Capacity has doubled and while the trains are still packed, at least you don't have to face an armpit for the whole journey.

And the people have noticed.

The LRT's ridership has already gone up, according to recently released figures.

6.2 million passengers took the trains in January (2010), a big jump from the 5.5 million who did so in the same period last year. That works out to about 17,000 more commuters daily.

Currently, about six sets of the new trains are running, but these will be gradually increased to 35 by 2012. Waiting time will be slashed from three to two minutes when that happens, authorities say.

Better public transport is among a laundry list of goals Prime Minister Najib Razak wants to achieve in his national Key Results Areas (KRA). 

Other targets include transparency, improving education and combating corruption. 

But it's simple, visible targets like public transport that I think his administration should focus its efforts on first. 

Another good place to start would be crime.

These are urgent issues that are always on the people's minds and can probably be tackled more quickly.

It's not that the other KRAs are not important. They are worthy - and urgent - causes as well, as his government seeks to win back the favour of its citizens. Malaysia's urbanites, in particular, voted overwhelmingly for the opposition in the last general elections.

But cutting corruption and improving transparency are also tougher battles and harder to quantify, certainly in the short term. And the voters want the changes to start now.

Improving public transport or reducing crime does not mean that all the ills of the government will immediately be forgotten. But it is a start that they can build on.

Now if only they will get cracking on those taxi driver touts.

IT'S NOT often that the sleepy village of Kampung Melayu in Pontian sees so much action.

Located an hour's drive from Johor Baru, its surrounding landscape comprises largely of one-storey bungalows, palm trees and stray chickens.

But for a few days last week, the town was a hub of action, captivated by the return of an infamous former resident.

By the time the body of slain militant leader Noordin Top arrived in Kampung Melayu, close to 500 people had already gathered at the village mosque.

Around one-third of the crowd were journalists and policemen, keenly watching the developments surrounding the man said to be implicated in every single major terror attack in Indonesia since 2003.

The 41-year-old was killed more than two weeks ago, along with three other militants, at the bloody end of a nine-hour siege in Central Java.

Journalists had been staking out the village cemetery in the days leading to his return.

The police, in turn, were staking out the journalists. I was asked three times by different cops for my name and organisation, and also had to surrender my identity card and press pass for checking.

The police were also keeping a close eye on the other people who came by.

This was, after all, one of the most feared terror masterminds in the region, with a loyal legion of followers.

Yet if there were any JI militants among the ranks at the burial, we could not tell.

Some people did not want to talk to us when we approached them, but many said they do not approve of Noordin's actions.

Most of those who turned up for the funeral said they were simply curious. Residents told me that everyone in the village knew who Noordin was, but his name seldom came up in conversations.

This included Kampung Melayu dweller Ilul Yahadi, 30, who went to the cemetery four times to wait for Noordin.

He had thought that the body was returning in previous days, but each time it turned out to be a false alarm. Fourth time was a charm for Mr Ilul — by then the odd job labourer had already given up RM200 worth of pay.

He told me he had never met Noordin before, but that Noordin had great influence — this was a man who could trigger a large police presence in the village everytime there was a rumour of his return.

Then there was Mohan Abdullah, 49, who spent almost the entire day waiting on Thursday with his wife and teenage son.

The chubby logistics manager, who hails from the town of Parit Raja 45 minutes away, said he had gone to the same school as Noordin but had never seen him before because he was much younger.

"I wanted to see who was this man that the whole world was talking about," he said. When Noordin failed to turn up, he shrugged and decided to visit a few relatives in the area instead.

Mr Mohan asked me to SMS him when I could confirm the return of Noordin's body. I did so the following day, and he gave me a wave when I saw him at the burial a few hours later.

At least one person, however, remembers Noordin. Fisherman Hammam Abdul Gaffar, 40, played with him when they were teenagers. He described Noordin as a quiet boy, but said that he had lost touch with him after he left school.

"I was shocked to see Noordin in the news. If you knew him, you would never expect him to do this," he said. "He said he was fighting for Islam, but this is not the way."

IN MIC president Samy Vellu's speech to party delegates at its annual general meeting last Saturday, he asked for more aid for the community and schools, and more job opportunities in the civil service.

It was a routine speech, and he got polite applause.

It was a stark contrast to Prime Minister Najib Razak's address, which came next. He was frequently rewarded with cheers and loud applause, and the crowd was hanging on to his every word.

Datuk Seri Najib touched on winning back support for the Barisan Nasional (BN) and tasked MIC with winning back Indians hearts, which had deserted the party and ruling coalition in droves during the last general elections (GE).

That will be your KPI (key performance index), he said.

He also threw in some light humour. He reminded them of his efforts to connect with Indians. He said he loved to interact with people, and recalled his walkabout among the Indian community in Brickfields, where he ended up at a restaurant called Dewi's Corner.

It is now called Najib's Corner, after the Prime Minister had a meal there. Now a picture of him hangs on the wall, showing the entrepreneurial spirit of the Indians, Mr Najib said.

"I'm going to charge royalties," he quipped, to laughter from the crowd.

But then he moved into what seemed like sensitive ground, telling the delegates that they had to be humble, to do their work seriously and to serve the people.

He even threw in a veiled criticism of Mr Samy Vellu, saying that being popular in a party didn't mean that one would be popular with the people.

Mr Samy Vellu has been leading MIC for 30 years and refused to relinquish power, even after MIC's heavy defeats in the last GE and many signs that he is unpopular in the Indian community.

As a result, observers note that Mr Najib has been bypassing MIC, and choosing to engage Indians directly with walkabouts and visits.

Yet the delegates embraced his message, cheering and clapping even louder, and responding "yes" emphatically when Mr Najib asked them if they could do what he asked of them.

He worked them up into a frenzy, and they eventually gave him a standing ovation when his speech was over.

One of the last people to stand up - he finally did so near the end of the ovation - was an unhappy-looking Samy Vellu.

Why, Mr Najib looked more like the MIC president than the MIC president himself, one reporter said.

The delegates may have still decided to sweep Mr Samy Vellu back into power, along with his allies in the polling later that day.

But judging from their reactions that Saturday morning, it seemed clear who they liked better.

The fight for the Indian vote is far from over for the ruling coalition. Recent incidents like the Section 23 temple row, in which Malay residents stepped on a cow's head in a provocative protest, will not make things easier for BN.

Mr Najib will be relieved that, through his direct engagements, he seems to have made some headway with the community.

IT DOES not seem the most likely time or place, but amidst the current mud-slinging in Malaysia's Chinese political circles is a pinch of cheeky, clean fun.

The Chinese papers here are having a field day reporting on the ongoing leadership tussle between the Malaysian Chinese Association's (MCA) president Ong Tee Keat and recently-fired deputy president Chua Soi Lek.

They have given generous coverage of the duo's feud, which came to a boil when the latter was sacked from the party last week over an old sex scandal.

Datuk Seri Chua's supporters have moved to hold an extraordinary general meeting (EGM) to reinstate him and to push for a motion of no-confidence against Datuk Seri Ong, saying Mr Chua was unfairly persecuted. They say his scandal was exposed almost two years ago, and he had already resigned from all his government and party posts.

The fiery face-off between MCA's top two leaders has provided much fodder for the Chinese press, which dedicate pages of coverage to the contest daily. It is often serious, but sometimes irreverent - and that is where the cheeky fun comes in.

In fact, as the saga has developed, cooking metaphors seem to be the order of the day. This is, after all, a party which has become synonymous with the "cai dan" (Mandarin for "menu").

The "cai dan" is a list of preferred candidates for different posts, endorsed by an MCA leader or its influential members, during the party's internal elections.

The Chinese media had quickly termed Mr Chua's sacking as "chao cai", or "frying vegetables", combining his surname with the common slang "chao you yu", which means "frying cuttlefish" or sacking somebody.

A few days later, rumours surfaced that Mr Ong might step down together Mr Chua, ending the strife by allowing two new leaders to take their place.

Among the successors being bandied around were MCA vice-presidents Kong Cho Ha and Liow Tiong Lai, as well as MCA Youth Chief Wee Ka Siong.

More puns ensued. This time, the press said that "weng cai" (or the kangkong vegetable, which sounds like a combination of the two incumbents' surnames) would be giving way to either "jiang liao" (cooking sauce, a combination of Mr Kong and Mr Liow's surnames) or "liao wei" (flavouring, a combination of Mr Liow and Dr Wee's surname)

One cartoon in Sin Chew Daily on Monday even had two supermarket saleswomen trying to entice a curious customer to test one of these new products.

"New addition, new taste, want to try?" one of them asks with a big grin.

Indeed, cartoon caricatures of Mr Ong and Mr Chua have been appearing almost daily, in different forms of competition: arm-wrestling one day; playing chess the next.

Nanyang Siang Pau also pictured the pair playing poker on the paper's Sunday cover, when it emerged that Datuk Seri Ong Ka Chuan, brother of MCA's last president Ong Ka Ting, had tacitly pledged his sizeable support base in Perak to Mr Chua.

In Nanyang's picture, Mr Chua is holding a King of Hearts card with Mr Ong Ka Chuan's face on it. The paper called it a "huang pai" (or trump card), a play on the latter's surname, which sounds like "King" in Mandarin.

But Mr Ong Tee Keat, the Chinese media says, will not go down easy.

He has been dubbed "bu dao weng" - one of those roly poly plastic toys that keep bouncing up no matter how much you punch it. Once again, it's a play on his surname. "Bu dao weng" literally means "Ong who doesn't fall" - a name which seems to resonate even more now that he has stolen a march on Mr Chua by calling for an EGM of his own.

As the two men continue brewing up a storm, the Chinese media will no doubt cook up more puns. We can expect future developments to be just as spicy.

Iranians have spilled onto the streets since the elections.
PHOTO: AFP

The unsurprising part comes from my interactions with the locals. I was in Iran just a month ago, and many Iranians I met expressed dissatisfaction with current president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

The surprise is that almost everyone seemed to be resigned to the fact that he was going to win another term — and most said they weren't going to bother voting, much less take to the streets.
 
It was at the famous Khaju bridge in Esfahan — the cultural centre of Iran — that I met English teacher Ali Reza.
 
Like almost every Iranian I spoke to — and I've probably chatted with a good dozen people — Mr Reza, a slim man in his 30s, was the one who initiated the conversation.
 
And like everyone else, after the pleasantries, the conversation turned to, "So what do you think about Iran?"
 
This isn't small talk. Underscoring Iranians' curiosity is a palpable sense of insecurity about how they are being seen by the outside world.

I say this because our conversation never ends there, after that innocuous first question. They move on to ask your views of the country's political stand, whether you think they should have nuclear power and if you think they are treated fairly by the Western world.

Many of them are aware that sizeable parts of the world see them as nuclear power crazy, religious zealots who scream jihad everyday.

That couldn't be further from the truth. I spent two weeks in Iran and many of the people I met hold moderate views.

They are educated, well-spoken and their women, for all the negativity around how they must all wear headscarfs, are a lot more emancipated and independent than in other Islamic countries.

Most of them blame Mr Ahmadinejad's unnecessary posturing for showing the world a totally skewed image of their nation.

So they cap it off with a careful reminder that most Iranians are not extremists.
 
And almost all of them would add that they, and many other Iranians, do not share the views of their president — a conservative, religious man backed by the powerful ruling clerics of the country.
 
"When Ahmadinejad speaks, his views do not represent the people. Khatami — he represents the people," they often said.
 
Indeed, many still speak fondly of the last person to lead their country — the moderate reformist Mohammad Khatami, who was president from 1997 to 2005.

When I ask who they think will win the upcoming elections, they were certain — Mr Ahmadinejad would triumph.

"Elections here are dirty," said Mr Ali, who said that he wasn't planning to vote, because he knew the incumbent would win again.

But if everyone tells me they dislike their president, and they want to vote for the opposition, surely something should come out of these pent-up sentiments?

Flash forward one month and that's what the anti-Ahmadinejad protesters in the streets seem to be saying.

Reportedly stirred out of their slumber in the run-up to the polls, many of Iran's youths are questioning the landslide victory for the incumbent, triggering the biggest street protests the country has seen in decades.

I'm not saying Mr Ahmadinejad doesn't have supporters. His detractors know that as well, but they are upset at how — in their view — the contest was clearly rigged.

"Where is my vote?" is now their slogan.

Mr Ahmadinejad's base is in the rural areas, places I didn't venture to. It's there that his religious, man-of-the-people image holds great appeal.

Even in the urban areas, there is the odd dissenting voice, like that of Mr Reza's father, who we met together with him at the bridge.

Like his son, he was an English teacher and spoke in flawless English. He said he is perfectly happy with Mr Ahmadinejad.

"He is brave. He dares to speak. It's about time someone stood up to the Americans and George Bush," he told us.

It was a funny sight, seeing the two of them, father and son, bantering and exchanging their opposing views with us.

At points they would rebut each other. Other times, one would listen impatiently and wait for his chance to interject.

They threw up their hands and rolled their eyes, but all in the right spirit, and we had a good laugh for the half hour we spent together.

But the people who hold the same opposing viewpoints are now taking turns to demonstrate on the streets of Tehran. There have been clashes with police and violence, and no apparent end in sight.

Some protesters see Mr Ahmadinejad as a dictator.
PHOTO: REUTERS

 At last count I believe there were seven deaths from the protests. It's not funny anymore.

THE announcement seemed innocuous enough. From next year, Malaysian students can only take a maximum of 10 subjects for the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM) examinations, Education Minister Muhyiddin Yassin said last week.
 
For one, it shouldn't affect too many people. Nine out of 10 students here don't take so many papers for this examination anyway, which is the equivalent of the O-levels in Singapore.
 
But the news has swiftly stirred up controversy, with as many people supporting the move as those opposing it.
 
On Tan Sri Muhyiddin's side are people who feel that Malaysians have gone exam-crazy in the pursuit of excellence. It was only in recent years that teenagers have taken to piling on subjects, with some taking as many as 20.
 
Previously, the average was around eight or nine, similar to the number of O-level subjects that Singaporean students take.
 
On the other side are those who feel that restricting the number of subjects means stifling the ability of the bright students. If someone is capable of taking more than 10 subjects, they argue, there should be no reason to stop them from fulfilling their full potential.
 
Underscoring this issue, however, is the awarding of the prestigious Public Service Department (PSD) scholarships for universities, which are based on SPM results.
 
The subject of the scholarship is the key reason for this move, as Mr Muhyiddin said that limiting the number of subjects will eradicate the controversy surrounding the awarding of the scholarships every year.
 
He did not elaborate on how this will work, but the annual brouhaha over the SPM is very real.
 
When the SPM results are announced every year, there are always disgruntled parents airing their views in the media, upset that their child didn't get a scholarship despite scoring, say, 15 A's, when someone else with 9 A's snagged one.
 
The students who take many subjects in the SPM no doubt hope that this will get them greater recognition in the race for these prestigious scholarships.
 
It may give them some leverage, but by now it should have become obvious that it certainly doesn't guarantee the scholarship.
 
For the Malaysian government, the SPM results presents a tricky situation because the issue carries a racial element — many non-Bumiputeras claim that they are unfairly passed over, because 60 per cent of the scholarships are reserved for the Bumiputeras.
 
The Bumiputeras have hit back, saying that it's racist to suggest that they would not have gotten the scholarships anyway without the quota.
 
There are also accusations from all quarters that children of those with the right political connections will get the scholarships, even when their results are inferior.
 
Removing any possibility of scoring a flood of A's levels from the playing field could potentially lessen the political implications for the ruling Barisan Nasional.
 
But there is a less cynical way to view the limiting of SPM subjects, because there are also many who have criticised the current obsession with academic results.
 
One blogger noted that these increasing numbers of A's meant nothing, saying that those who took so many subjects were often just repeating the same papers.
 
A student might take, for instance, pure science, general science and applied science — similar subjects that can help him score more A's, although he is not really learning anything new or useful.
 
"An academic kiasu-ness has no place in tertiary education, much less the real world," he said.
 
Others feared turning into "exam-crazy" Singapore. Indeed, the number of Malaysians who took more than 10 SPM subjects last year outnumbers the entire cohort of Singaporeans who sat for the O-levels (45,000 to 37,000, in case you were wondering).
 
Many agree with Mr Muhyiddin's view that limiting subjects will give the students more time to spend on extra-curricular activities, allowing them to become more well-rounded individuals.
 
A student with 10A's and a good record in extra-curricular activity is more deserving of a scholarship than someone with 18A's that spends all his time buried in his books, they argue.
 
Malaysian-born, US-based surgeon and social commentator Bakri Musa was more blunt, saying that taking 20 subjects was "ridiculous".
 
He pointed out that a matriculating American high school student sits for seven subjects at most, while the renowned International Baccalaureate only offers six to eight.
 
Dr Bakri also disagrees with those who feel that someone with 20 A's should automatically get a scholarship over another with fewer distinctions.
 
"They are ascribing to the SPM a degree of precision it does not deserve. The SPM has yet to prove itself as a valid instrument in the first place," he wrote on his blog.
 
Although the announcement has been made, the Education Ministry has said that they will still be seeking feedback from the public this week.
 
The ministry will draw up a working paper next week, to be brought to the Cabinet for deliberation.