BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Six

My father isn't a phone person. During his pre-retirement days, we were not to call him at work and he hardly called home. He didn't, and doesn't, have a cell phone. Nowadays, if he has something to tell us when we are at work, my mother - who is deaf in one ear and has a gift of garbling words - is the one who picks up the phone to pass us his messages.

Ma: (In Cantonese.) "Your father says you should buy some shares from that leit today."

Me: "What leit?"

Ma: "That leit." (Maybe five feet from her, my father is saying a word that sounds like reit.)

Me: "What reit?"

Ma: "That one that starts with P. He says you should buy some today. (Now, someone is saying what sounds like prime reit.)

Me: "Prime Reit?"

Ma: "That one that owns two buildings in Orchard. It's in the news today, your father says."

No, I don't have a clue why he can't come to the phone himself. But imagine my bewilderment when, for the first time ever, he called me at work yesterday. Yes, my mother has gone to China for a week, but what could be so crucial, he had to dial my number?

Me: "Lou Dao?"

Pa: "I want to cook a bit of brown rice. How many bowls of water do you add to a cup of rice?"