An overwhelming sense of gloom pervaded Lee's office as he unburdened his fears of an imminent communal bloodbath to Raja. The way things looked now to Lee, there seemed no way to prevent the UMNO ultras from fomenting further race riots. He saw the future, and feared it. Raja could see the toll that this was all taking on the PM – he looked more despondent than ever. Summoning the courage they seemed to need, Raja told Lee, whom he called “Harry”: “Harry, they want us to be fearful and give in.” It was imperative, he said, not to give in.

In the whirl of despair, Raja saw another future, one in which the extremists would not win. “You know we can peacefully rally the races together not just in Singapore but also in peninsular Malaya, Sabah and Sarawak,” he said steadily. “Then the ultras will have to think again. Can they engineer trouble across Malaysia? Can they do that without harming themselves?”

Lee found Raja's optimistic streak contagious. “He injected an upbeat mood by painting a more positive outcome,” the PM recalled later. Remarkably quickly, Lee swivelled his attention to the bold proposal. He related: “He assured me that he, Toh Chin Chye and the PAP leaders who came from Malaya would get their friends together and muster support. I felt reassured.” Bolstered by Raja's calm counsel and confidence, Lee snapped back to his old self again. His spirits revived as he considered this course of action, although he still worried what the consequences might be.

This was the angst-ridden background for the PAP's ambitious plan to lead a political movement to gather Malaysia-wide support for a Malaysian Malaysia. It was a transformative moment, not only of Lee's morale, but also of his leadership on Malaysia, and therefore the fate of Singapore.

At this point, it is impossible to understand Raja's actions as a politician without appreciating the nature of the relationship between him and Lee. Raja saw Lee as Singapore's best hope for its survival, and his own best hope for achieving his vision of a multiracial nation based on equality for all. It was a vision that, since merger, had extended beyond Singapore to the whole of Malaysia.

When Vietnamese troops stormed into Kampuchea (Cambodia), seized its capital, Phnom Penh, ousted its Khmer Rouge government and installed a puppet regime within two weeks in January 1979, Raja's world changed.

It crystallised for him a stark realisation: This could happen to other countries in the region, too – including Singapore, and particularly Thailand, which was now a frontline state. It could lead to a savage and protracted war spreading to the rest of Southeast Asia, a war that would inevitably involve the contending major powers. This was thus not merely an attack on Kampuchea – it was also a serious and direct threat to the stability and peace of the region.

It seemed clear to Raja that Vietnam's aggression was ushering in a dangerous new era of regional tension. This too was clear: the invasion of a smaller country by a larger neighbour, along with the deposition of a legitimate government by external force and the imposition of a proxy by a foreign power, was a direct challenge to the fundamentals of Singapore's foreign policy.

The far-reaching implications of Vietnam's naked aggression, sparking what was known as the Third Indochina War, had a profound influence on his approach to regional risks and dangers as well as on his conduct on the international stage. It would present him with one of the greatest strategic, diplomatic and moral challenges of his life.

Having tracked Vietnam's behaviour going back decades, Raja did not underestimate its fighting power and its hunger to dominate its weaker neighbours. Flush from its victory over the United States in 1975, Vietnam, which had almost 50 million people, had effectively subsumed Laos with its three million people. Nothing, it appeared, could contain the influence of Communist Vietnam, supported by its treaty ally, the Soviet Union.

As Vietnam digested its latest conquest – Kampuchea, with its seven million people – Raja's most pressing concern was the impact on Thailand. His visit to Bangkok just two weeks before the invasion had given him a keen sense of the nervous mood in the Thai capital. As he told the American ambassador to Singapore, Richard Kneip, on 21 December 1978, he found the atmosphere akin to the aftermath of the Vietnam War in 1975 – “with the government feeling alone and exposed”.

On 17 October 1968, militant youths in their hundreds swarmed the Singapore embassy in Jakarta brandishing bamboo staves. They were looking for P.S. Raman, the Singapore ambassador to Indonesia. Fortunately, he was not there, having escaped with his staff earlier.

The Indonesian troops ostensibly guarding the embassy offered no resistance as the mob stormed the building. The rioters ripped pictures of the Singapore president from the walls, tore down and torched the Singapore flag, smashed the windows and trashed the place. It was an organised act of violence, made more menacing by the appearance of several red-bereted marine commandos declaring their mission to kill.

The mob was out to avenge the deaths of two Indonesian marines executed in Singapore that morning for the bombing of MacDonald House in March 1965 that killed three civilians and wounded 33 others. Despite a personal plea by president Suharto for clemency, the marines, Osman bin Haji Mohamed Ali and Harun bin Said, were hanged.

The case was a bitter legacy of Sukarno's Confrontation. The men condemned as murderers in Singapore were hailed as war heroes in Indonesia. On 18 October, their bodies were flown to Jakarta and buried with full military honours at the Kalibata Heroes cemetery.

While Jakarta seethed with anger against Singapore, Raman and his eight colleagues were holed up in Suite 740 of Hotel Indonesia under Indonesian police protection.

Outside, mobs continued to hunt for the Singapore diplomat. They sacked the residences of the Singapore mission. They then took their wrath out on the local Chinese community, fomenting anti-Chinese riots in several areas. Indonesian officials told the press that the situation would be easier to control if Raman left Indonesia.

It was a harrowing time for the newly minted diplomat, who had been ordered by his government to stay put in Jakarta. As threats against his life intensified, he and his staff were moved from the hotel to secret locations.

Meanwhile, various Indonesian groups called for ties to be cut with Singapore, and for a shipping and trade boycott. An Indonesian marine commander gave an ominous undertone to the cries when he declared that he would like “the honour” of leading an invasion of Singapore.

The Lion's Roar is the second volume of Irene Ng's biography of Mr S. Rajaratnam, covering his life and work after 1963. Younger Singaporeans would not have known him in person, and may not even have heard of him. But he was an exceptional leader, one of the core group of founding fathers who shared a fierce conviction of what Singapore should be, and defied the odds to build a united, successful and confident nation.

Raja, as his friends called him, played many roles over the course of his extraordinary life. He was a journalist, anti-colonialist, philosopher, wordsmith, and diplomat – often several of these at once. Above all, he was a patriot who worked tirelessly to create a better future for Singaporeans.

He helped define Singapore's foundational ideals and values, framed principles and strategies to secure our place in the world, and fought with courage and conviction to make these words and ideas an enduring reality.

After Singapore merged with the Federation of Malaya, Sarawak and North Borneo (Sabah) to form Malaysia, Raja campaigned for a “Malaysian Malaysia”. Sadly, this proved incompatible with the racebased politics of the Federation.

After independence, in the aftermath of racial riots and the trauma of Separation, Raja crystallised his vision of a united, multiracial Singapore in the National Pledge.

As labour minister, he played a major role in transforming fractious labour management relations into our unique cooperative model of tripartism, where workers, employers and the government work together to expand the economic pie.

As our first foreign minister, Raja established the fundamental principles of Singapore's foreign policy. He advocated regional interdependence as the way forward for Southeast Asian countries, and negotiated the agreement that created ASEAN. He began Singapore's engagement of China. On his first visit there in 1975, he explained clearly to his hosts how Singapore, with its majority ethnic Chinese but multiracial population, intended to conduct its relations with China, cooperating on the basis of national interests and not ethnic affinity. When Vietnam attacked Cambodia in 1978, he rallied his ASEAN counterparts to oppose the invasion, emphasising the principle enshrined in the United Nations Charter – an existential one for Singapore – that international borders must not be violated.

One day, out of the blue, journalist Peter Lim received a call from Raja to go to his office. Usually, during this period of strained government-press relations in the 1970s, a summons from a minister was instant cause for alarm. But not this one, and not when it came from Raja.

In fact, his was not a summons so much as an invitation: would he, Raja asked Lim, like to sit in at an interview that would be conducted by foreign correspondents? Lim did not think twice about accepting. Despite the government's harsh attitudes towards the press, he was at ease with Raja personally. “He was so gentle, and had the same wavelength as journalists,” he said of the minister. The journalist, who joined The Straits Times in 1957, had known Raja from the time when he was a leader writer for the newspaper from 1954 to 1959. Lim had then looked up to Raja as “a first-class editorial writer”.

When the journalist turned up at the minister's office for the interview, he saw another side of Raja. It was an eye-opener. The session gave him, he related, “a direct view of how the foreign journalists were trying to get stuff out of Raja”. It struck him that they couldn't match the minister's intellect, even though they did their research well.

Through such interactions with the minister, the journalist gained an invaluable window into the government's thinking on external developments as well as the larger issues of the day. Other than being insightful, they were also a morale-booster for Lim, who in 1978 became editor-in-chief of The Straits Times. At the time, Singapore journalists were generally regarded somewhat as poor cousins to their more aggressive Western counterparts. Morale in the newsroom was low, with journalists facing intense pressure from a prime minister scornful of Singapore journalism in general and The Straits Times in particular. At a general election rally in 1972, Lee said: “The not so bright go into political science and sociology. When they cannot get a good job, they go on to journalism. We are supposed to have freedom of the press. Their analysis of the PAP is often completely off the mark. They do not know the basic data about men and politics in Singapore, that politics here literally means life and death.”

On a baking-hot Sunday afternoon in 1984, the streets of Kampong Glam were buzzing with unusual activity – and few were happier than its long-time MP, Raja. At 2 p.m. on 29 April, he was waiting at the gate of the Bras Basah Community Centre to welcome Goh Chok Tong, the defence and second health minister.

Goh and his party were visiting Kampong Glam and its neighbouring ward, Jalan Besar, on one of the weekly walkabouts held to expose young leaders to various constituencies. The accelerated process of political renewal was then the most talked-about development in Singapore politics, and Raja was aware of the tremendous pressure on Goh, who was seen as a potential successor to Lee Kuan Yew.

When Goh arrived at the community centre, Raja, who outranked him as deputy prime minister (DPM), did two extraordinary things. First, he honoured the younger man by draping a flower garland around his neck, a task usually assigned to grassroots activists. It was also quite uncustomary in an Asian society where respect was shown to seniors rather than the other way round. At 69, Raja was the oldest minister in the Cabinet, the grand old man of Singapore politics with 25 years under his belt. Goh, in contrast, was just 43 and had only eight years in politics – a political tenderfoot in comparison.

Second, Raja gave his vote of confidence to the second-generation leadership by pronouncing to the world: “These are the best men and I am convinced that they can take over even tomorrow, if necessary.” It was a strong statement – no “ifs” or “buts” or even a “maybe” – and was all the more significant given the swirling doubts around the political renewal process.

Goh was visibly moved by the DPM's endorsement. Perceiving the import of the occasion, he then did something unexpected himself. He lifted the garland from around his neck and, with a smile, draped it around Raja’s. The gesture was not lost on the crowd, who broke out in loud applause. The younger leader told them: “Mr Rajaratnam is a highly disciplined man who has totally dedicated his entire adult life to building a modern Singapore. It is people like him who inspired my colleagues and me to enter politics.”

At times, Raja's worldview seemed to be that of a time-travelling prophet hurtling between ancient and future worlds, then landing on a barren rock – conscious of the swirling dangers, the starry possibilities, and the stony ground underfoot.

On 6 February 1972, stepping up to the podium in a Chinese restaurant, he offered a speech with the incongruous title “Singapore: Global City”, which must at the time have sounded like something straight out of science fiction, as befitting the roaming mind of a time traveller.

That evening, before a hall of journalists, Raja spoke of Singapore transforming into a new kind of city – “the global city”, also known as “Ecumenopolis”, the world-embracing city.

In his speech, he evoked a vision of the small island linked to other global cities in the world, forming a constellation of global cities that would eventually shape world history and the world economy. He conjured up a time when the physical size of the country mattered less than the human brains within it, when its fortunes would be decided less by regional developments than by the global economic system. The world was its hinterland. He predicted that, by plugging into the global network, Singapore would be propelled into the ranks of the most advanced industrial and technological societies in 20 to 30 years.

He proved remarkably prescient. But the media fraternity at the dinner organised by the Singapore Press Club could not have known the impact that Raja's compelling words would have on Singapore's modern history. The “global city” construct, articulated for the first time here, provided an entirely new way of viewing the country's current reality and its distant future.

As the pressmen took a pause from their Cantonese courses at the new Dragon Palace restaurant in the Cockpit Hotel, the intellectual feast being laid before them was something that only Raja could concoct. The appetiser in his 40-minute fusion of ideas came by way of a mystery: How was it that, seven years after separating from Malaysia, Singapore had yet to collapse as predicted? How to explain its progress, despite the decline of its traditional entrepot trade and the rundown of the British base?

Raja had barely recovered from jetlag, having just returned from Germany, when he entered the gladiator's ring that was the federal parliament in KL. It quickly became clear to him that the session was a blood sport, and the quarry was Lee Kuan Yew.

The scent was strong in the speech of UMNO backbencher Mahathir Mohamad, who opened the debate on the address of the Yang di-Pertuan Agong (the King) on 26 May 1965. A star on the rise, Mahathir lunged into the familiar UMNO denunciation of the PAP as “pro-Chinese” and “anti-Malay”, but with a twist: Lee was an example of the “insular, selfish, and arrogant” type of Chinese in Singapore who, he said, “have never known Malay rule and could not bear the idea that the people that they have so long kept under their heels should now be in a position to rule them”.

It was the kind of comment that led Raja to conclude scathingly that Mahathir's speech was one of an “ultra”. He was aghast at the suggestion that the non-Malays in Singapore must accept Malay rule in Malaysia. As he would point out at the next opportunity, they did not enter Malaysia on the basis that it was out to establish Malay rule. It was for Malaysian rule.

Then, on 27 May, Lee spoke. Raja felt the atmosphere in the House change dramatically. The Singapore premier challenged the House to state its stand on Malaysian Malaysia. He made clear that he was not asking for the removal of Malay special rights. But they benefitted only a special few, and were inadequate to uplift the lot of the Malay masses, he argued. Rebutting the charge that he was pro-Chinese, he set out his political calculus: any party or person championing a Chinese Malaysia could not attract majority support, as the Chinese made up only 42 per cent of Malaysians.

Then, switching to Malay, he called on UMNO to show that it cared for the people's welfare by letting the PAP compete with it on which had the better programmes to improve the standard of living of the Malays. The PAP, he said, had an alternative that would, in 10 years, “breed a generation of Malays with educated minds” filled with an understanding of “the techniques of science and modern industrial management” and who were “capable, competent”.

Darling,” he wrote to his anxious wife in Singapore on 10 November 1983 from a clinic in London, “thanks for the letters and the earlier note and also for finally digging up the tooth brush charger.”

That was how Raja began his first letter to Piroska while waiting to undergo a triple heart bypass surgery at the Harley Street Clinic in London. The operation was scheduled for 21 November after tests revealed severe blockages in all three major coronary vessels: 90 to 95 per cent in one, 99 per cent in another, and complete blockage in the third.

In words chosen to calm his wife, he wrote that the doctors and nurses in the cardiac unit had told him what to expect. “There is really nothing to worry about,” he asserted.

His heart surgeon, Donald Ross, had performed hundreds of heart bypasses successfully. Furthermore, he, the patient, would be under anaesthetic during the surgery and under sedation after that, so he would not be aware of anything. Continuing in a light vein, he remarked: “If anyone is upset, it is more likely to be visitors who may quite incorrectly convince themselves I’m in great distress.”

The thrust of his heartfelt letter is captured in this one sentence: “So please don't worry about the operation.” For added emphasis, he underlined it with a heavy hand with the blue ballpoint pen he was using. The dominant notes of the letter were assurance, optimism and good cheer.

Knowing his wife's obsessive concern over his care, he pronounced that the nurses “are very efficient and take good care of you”. The food was “not bad”, with the daily menu providing a wide choice including things like “shish kebab and what passes for Madras curry”. “So far, no restrictions on what I eat,” he informed her. Why, he was even served two fried eggs, a sausage and a rasher of bacon for breakfast the previous Sunday.

He gave the impression that he was not in the least worried about the “routine” operation, as he described it, and was even having a pleasant time while counting down the days towards it. He told her that, if it was mild and sunny – as most days had been – he would go for short walks in the vicinity and go “book hunting”. He would head to the city once every two or three days.

When Raja took the oath of office for the last time on 2 January 1985, it opened a new, and final, chapter in his life as an elder statesman. Other than PM Lee, he was the only minister left from the original nine in the first 1959 Cabinet. Raja was designated Senior Minister (SM) in the prime minister's office, a new post created for him.

With his silver-grey hair slicked back from a receding hairline and black-rimmed glasses perched atop an aquiline nose, he had a congenial gravitas that lent itself well to the position. Sworn in after the prime minister in the Istana state room, Raja now ranked No. 2 in protocol in the 13-man Cabinet dominated by second-generation leaders. Coming third in precedence was Goh Chok Tong, the first deputy prime minister and minister for defence, whose peers had selected him as their leader on 30 December 1984. The occasion marked a new political era for Singapore with the ascendancy of the younger leaders.

Announcing the new line-up on 31 December, the Prime Minister's Office said in a statement: “Mr Rajaratnam's protocol precedence after the Prime Minister is their deference to his personal position as the last member of the Prime Minister's original 1959 Cabinet.” Later that day, Goh elaborated on the consensus among the younger leaders: “We have great respect for Mr Rajaratnam, for his age and his wisdom.”

It was an exceptional gesture of esteem for Raja. The contrast with the political fortunes of Toh Chin Chye (DPM in 1959) and Ong Pang Boon (home affairs minister in 1959) was hard to miss. Toh had been dropped from the Cabinet in 1981, and in the latest reshuffle, Ong had joined him on the backbenches, where they remained until they left politics in 1988.

The epochal shake-up in the Cabinet embodied both change and continuity, with the younger team taking charge of the day-to-day running of the government, but under the watchful eyes of Lee and Raja. On several occasions in late 1984, Lee had hinted that he would retire as prime minister when he turned 65 in 1988. That certainly concentrated minds on the handover.

Sworn in as minister for labour and foreign affairs on 16 April 1968, Raja now took main responsibility for some of the biggest challenges facing the country. The most pressing related to his labour ministry brief: tackling unemployment and lifting the standard of living. Both problems provoked constant political heat and were sources of mass discontent.

As pressurising were his foreign ministry priorities of managing regional relationships to help maintain stability and security, and building international confidence. Otherwise, economic development would be elusive.

In Raja’s mind, the security issues were more difficult to resolve than the economic ones. But right now, they were equally taxing on his time, energy and imagination. The country would face radically new problems that required new approaches and methods, he believed. “Because of the British withdrawal in 1971, Southeast Asia will become an increasingly turbulent area, and there will be mounting economic distress and growing political instability around us,” he said.

The new labour minister found himself standing on the brink of a labour crisis so dire that it could only be remedied by radical and painful reform. Everyone knew that leading such a hot ministry was treacherous business. But this was precisely why he was chosen for the job, Lee Kuan Yew said later. “I knew that he would not be intimidated by the problems and would take them on,” said the PM.

The figures illustrate the sheer challenge of Raja’s undertaking: over 10 per cent of the labour force of 500,000 unemployed, at least an equal number underemployed – and another 100,000 workers set to lose their jobs when the British pulled out. Additionally, about 25,000 school leavers entered the labour market each year. Yet, despite the country’s economic growth of 9 per cent per annum for the last three years, only about 5,000 jobs were created a year – nowhere near what would be required.

It was all hands to the economic pump. Goh Keng Swee, Singapore’s chief economic architect, had left his defence post to return to the Treasury in August 1967. In a radio and television broadcast in March 1968, he warned that if things were allowed to take their natural course with the British rundown, the result would be a “severe and protracted recession”. The policy of the government, he said in his usual clinical tone, was to prevent this recession.

Two items caught Raja's eye when he visited an industrial exhibition hall in Shanghai on the afternoon of 18 March 1975. One was a giant tapestry of the Great Wall of China so expansive that he had to stand back to take in the full view. The other was a tiny piece of ivory carved with Chinese characters so minute that he had to hold a magnifying glass to it.

The images planted a seed in his mind, and by the time he addressed a banquet that evening, it had sprouted into a metaphor for China- Singapore relations. “The tapestry is China,” he told his Chinese host, “the ivory carving is Singapore”. It took as much skill to weave the tapestry as to carve the ivory, he noted. To appreciate them, one must adopt the right perspective. “Understanding comes from how you look at things. If we can find the right distance, we can always understand each other,” he said at the dinner hosted by the Shanghai municipality revolutionary committee.

Through this metaphor, Raja was trying to communicate a deeper message in a way that his Chinese audience could relate to without it being lost in translation. The message was this: Singapore might be small, but it had its own unique qualities, aspirations and achievements. Look carefully to understand it – for Singapore was intrinsically different from China in its multiracial make-up and its system. The fine art of building its society required as much intricate skill as it would a much larger society.

This was a point that he clearly felt strongly about, coming after all from a city-state one-tenth the size of Shanghai. Singapore's two million people were a droplet compared to the ocean of China's 800 million. Given China's sheer scale and historic grandeur, it would have been the most natural thing for a Singaporean leader on his maiden visit to have felt insignificant, if not overawed. But, as his choice of metaphor showed, Raja felt none of those things.

His intuitive grasp of metaphor and allusion played well in China, for his entire trip was loaded with symbolism. Joseph Koh, the MFA officer who was secretary to the mission to China, was struck by his minister's imaginative turn of mind.

With so many decisions to make each day, Raja had long resolved that what to eat for lunch would not be among them. Fortified by a heavy breakfast of bacon and eggs, he usually worked through the lunch hour. If he was not in the office, at a meeting or an event elsewhere, he would likely be in a bookshop browsing, ostensibly as part of his research work. His favourite haunts near his City Hall office included the MPH bookstore on Stamford Road and the second-hand bookshops on Bras Basah.

But usually at least once a week, Raja would climb the stairs one storey up to Lee's second-floor office for a working lunch – except that, for the foreign minister, it was all work and no lunch, as had become his habit. As Lee tucked into his food, Raja would sip his tea as the two men exchanged views on foreign policy and other affairs.

Because some issues were very sensitive, they did not want to discuss them openly, not even at the Cabinet level. In their one-on-one conversations, they used each other as sounding boards, bouncing off ideas, analysing approaches to issues, and defining and refining their attitudes to emerging trends and dangers. Sometimes, they dissected the developments in specific countries. Other times, “we just discussed generally as events developed, or in terms of projecting the future direction that our foreign policy should take and anticipating problems”, Raja recalled. And, occasionally, they argued.

The free-flowing exchanges, conducted over these and other meetings, allowed the two men to visualise possible scenarios and different outcomes, and to be prepared as far as possible for them – at least psychologically, if not practically. This habit helped them to check their blind spots, although not always successfully, for both men exhibited a degree of intellectual arrogance that could at times cloud their judgment.

Raja brought his analytical mind to bear on all aspects of the policy process. His method involved distinguishing real dangers from imaginary ones, and permanent dangers from temporary ones. Like so much of the framework of his thinking, this was rooted in his reading of history. Most human tragedies had arisen from the futile solutions conceived by rulers to imaginary dangers, and their failure to pinpoint the real sources of danger, which could vary from week to week, month to month and year to year.