Just off that main thorough-fare, tucked among houses in the neighbourhood, are two Catholic churches and two Taoist shrines.
On some evenings, you can see Muslims, Christians and Buddhists strolling to their respective places of worship, all seeking succour but in different ways.
This mixed religious landscape is by no means unusual in Singapore where people, living cheek by jowl, practise five main religions -- Buddhism, Taoism, Islam, Christianity and Hinduism.
That each faith has managed to go about its business peacefully is something Singaporeans take for granted, and which many regard as a source of national pride.
The country's multi-religious face was highlighted recently in a report, Religion In Singapore, by university academics Eddie Kuo and Tong Chee Kiong.
Among other things, they noted that with so many religious groups interacting in close proximity, there was potential for friction and conflict.
No one can doubt the sometimes destructive force of religion. But I am more optimistic about the situation here.
Singapore is a secular state and there are laws governing religious harmony. Anyone who oversteps the boundaries in preaching his faith will have to answer to the authorities.
But, more importantly, Singaporeans are, on the whole, a level-headed people. They have been exposed to so many religions, and have seen the devastation that can be unleashed when religious strictures are followed to the extreme.
The majority, I think, will toe a middle line when it comes to practising and spreading their faith.
I was born into a Buddhist/Taoist household which, according to the report, makes up more than half of the population.
My grandmother was the active practitioner in the family, which is in line with another finding of the report, that women tend to be more active in religious rituals than men.
She believed the more gods you prayed to, the luckier you were. The family altar was home to a pantheon of gods, chief among them the graceful oval-faced Guan Yin and the rotund figure of Buddha.
Growing up, my cousins and I had to help out during the seemingly endless round of festivals that dotted my grandmother's religious calendar.
On those days, my mother and aunts would spend hours in the kitchen defeathering and plucking fresh young chickens, then rush to arrange on the altar the flowers and fruit and festival cakes.
Qing Ming was one of the biggest religious events of the year, and the clan would troop to my grandfather's grave at Choa Chu Kang.
As we lived on the other side of the island and there were no expressways then, my family would set off at 5.30 am, the car boot filled with food, to make that hour-long drive to the site.
A red glazed roasted pig, curly paper flowers entwined on its tail for decorative touch, took centre stage in the culinary feast for my dead grandfather. There would also be fruits, chicken, duck, crabs and fish.
Each of us would take turns to offer our prayers -- eldest first -- while trying not to trip over each other in the narrow space of the tomb.
Then, brushing aside the blanket of grey ash that had fallen from the joss sticks onto the food, we would cart everything back home for lunch.
The Hungry Ghost festival was the other major event. A table would be laid out in the garden of my grandmother's house and all kinds of offerings -- rice, salt, pails, towels, soap, tinned food, a sumptuous spread of cooked dishes -- displayed for the ghosts' picking.
The same table would be used a few weeks later for the mid-autumn moon festivities.
My cousins and I were warned never to point at the full moon or we would get a cut in our ears. True enough, I stuck my finger out one year and found one slit on my right ear the next day. It was a coincidence, no doubt, but I have never done it again.
The report noted that younger and English-educated Singaporeans have moved away from traditional Chinese rituals because they consider them to be illogical and irrational.
Many have either turned to Christianity, which is perceived to be more rational, or do not have a religion. I suppose I must be one of them.
Although Buddhism and Taoism were practised at home, my siblings and I were sent to English mission schools. For many years, I yearned to be a Catholic like my friends.
There was a chapel in my primary school. During the examination period, I would head for that shadowy room with my Catholic classmates and imitate the way they dipped their fingers into the bowl of holy water and knelt.
Sometimes, we would visit the nuns' quarters. To raise funds for the school, the sisters used to bake cupcakes and sell them.
Catholicism, I thought, then, was the sweet vanilla aroma of freshly baked cakes. To my young heart, that smell was a far cry from the stale heat of a Chinese temple and the acridity of incense.
The English-speaking nuns in their white starched habits lived in a different world from my grandmother and her dialect-speaking, liver-spotted friends.
I went to a Methodist junior college, where Christianity meant something else. Prayers were made without the sign of the cross, my friends sang different hymns, and there was less ritual. Christianity was not so mysterious after all.
In university, I was exposed to more faiths. I met Muslims in scarves, Hindus with painted dots on their foreheads, and English- speaking, jeans-clad Buddhists. There were also irritating Christians who plonked themselves next to me, a stranger, to preach the Bible.
From all this, I suppose I have fashioned a personal faith that incorporates a Christian god, but also a firm belief that other religions have every right to exist.
Many -- and they will be from all faiths -- will disagree with me, but I think that as far as religion is concerned, it should be to each his own.
After all, the only thing that really matters about life is death, and how each of us comes to terms with that -- which, in my book, is basically what religion is about -- is an individual choice.
So while religious adherents should, by all means, go forth and add to their flock if they believe in doing so, they should always keep in mind a person's right choose a religion -- or not have one.