In the end, in the very, very end, I had to end it where it began. Why ask tarot what I can ask him in person? Why wear myself out with questions I can make him answer?
Certain I would catch him at home on a Sunday night, I cabbed to his block. At his door I was nervous. I thought I heard the television in the house. I tried the doorbell, then the door. No one answered. I went around the block to get a look at the house. It was dark and all the windows of all the rooms were closed. But a man opened the living room windows – someone was in then, not him, but someone – and I tried the door again. A man who looked like a thin teddy bear came to the door and when I asked for “Max” he said, “There is no Max who lives here. Is your address correct?”
I said I was sure I had the right house. “I’ve been in there.”
He said he had lived there on his own for years.
I said I had been in there with a Max in April.
“What has he done?”
“So Max is here?”
He said he did have a housemate but it wasn’t a Max. “I want to help you but tell me what he has done. Has he done anything criminal?”
I almost laughed. “No. It isn’t criminal not to call a girl.”
He said he had a housemate named Gotham, Gautham or something (“As in Batman?” I said but he didn’t get it and gave me a weak smile) who was out but would be back soon.
“Is he from the Maldives? Does he work for a bank?”
“Gotham” works for a tech company, his friend said. Thrown by the unfamiliar name and job, I thanked him and was ready to leave. Maybe my “Max” had left. Or he had lied. Or he had asked his friend to lie. What more did I need to know?
As soon as I was downstairs I had a new plan, however. My inner policewoman thought, why don’t I get the dating app again, go to the suspect’s photo page, show it to the man upstairs and see how he reacts? The app was slow, super slow. By the time I had the pics on the phone, the suspect was walking by me with loads of shopping and a fair and plump woman. (So that is his type. Someone like me.) I followed them, a few steps behind, and they didn’t see me until they got to his door and I went, “Hey…can I talk to you? Two minutes?”
Looking at him again after six months, I saw an uneven colouring on his face, a splatter of vanilla on caramel, that I didn’t recall. It was still a good face but all I felt was…nothing. He said, sure, he could talk. As his girlfriend went into the house he got me to walk with him to the lawn near the block. He said he remembered me, although he hadn’t recognised me immediately; it had been that long. He said he was surprised by my visit, although he didn’t sound it. He was as smooth as I remembered.
“New girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend.”
“Good for you.”
Finally, we were at a pavilion and he asked me what I wanted to talk about. I said he had not responded to my texts since May. (I was trying to be factual and to let him have his say, to be fairer to him.) He said he had gone abroad in May and got a new phone number in June. He said he thought he had told me to “get over” that afternoon.
“No you didn’t and you should have. I’m not a psychic.”
He said he had made a mistake. “It wasn’t planned, it just happened, it can’t be reversed. But we knew afterwards we were not two people who would get along.”
He knew. Did I? Did I know it and wishfully unknow it?
“I thought there was nothing to talk about and we would get over it. But seeing you here now, I know I made a mistake.”
He asked me to blame him. “You have to blame someone. Then one day you can forgive even if you don’t forget,” he said. Or he did not say it and I misheard. I had heard enough, though. His words cost him nothing and I didn’t want more. As I left he wished me good luck. I said bye.
It was windy – a night as nice as that day – when I walked to the road and caught a cab home.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
ORANGE JUICE | Six
Finally, I saw an actual tarot reader in Bylands Building, a couple of steps from Guanyin in the country’s most fabled temple; a no-nonsense woman I paid to tell me to let it go. She said he had moved on. She said he hadn’t been ready. I had drawn a King of Cups and she said, “I don’t trust this king. He tells white lies. He’s a sweet-talker.” Move on, she said. Don’t miss your boat. Don’t wait for him and miss your Mr Right.
Even then I had to come home and press the virtual tarot card reader for more answers, a story to tell myself to give him up. Whether or not the cards spoke true, I drew comfort from them (as I took refuge in flu and K-drama, two things which allow me to go around the house with a gooey face, no questions asked).
Even then I had to come home and press the virtual tarot card reader for more answers, a story to tell myself to give him up. Whether or not the cards spoke true, I drew comfort from them (as I took refuge in flu and K-drama, two things which allow me to go around the house with a gooey face, no questions asked).
Sunday, August 25, 2013
ORANGE JUICE | Five
The last words he said to you as he stepped off the train were, “Text me.” And you have revisited that moment so many times since that afternoon, wishing you had stepped off the train too and said to him like a cool woman, “When you say, text me, do you mean goodbye? Then say what you mean, okay, and kiss me goodbye.”
But you are not cool, you are just crazy. You texted him, though you said you wouldn’t, then you had the longest two weeks of your life waiting for him to text you again. (He said he would be busy “these two weeks”, another of his roundabout goodbyes.) Then you wrote him a long letter, your rationale being: He started a fire, why should you spare him the smoke? (Listen to yourself. You talk like you are an avenging haze from Indonesia.)
You have stopped saying to your friends you are over him because you can’t seem to stay over him. You live in a dreamland with tarot as your new friend because who else can you trouble with impossible questions like: Did he read the letter? Will you see him again? (You did go to the Guanyin temple to get a divination but why did she say you were “carrying a ferocious tiger and climbing a steep mountain”? What did she mean exactly? But you couldn’t bring yourself to bother her again with your sesame-size crisis when so many other living beings need her.)
And so you wait on and on and on… Some days you are alone yet strong in your certainty that your encounter wasn’t random, that you will see him again. Other days you are alone and anxious…
But you are not cool, you are just crazy. You texted him, though you said you wouldn’t, then you had the longest two weeks of your life waiting for him to text you again. (He said he would be busy “these two weeks”, another of his roundabout goodbyes.) Then you wrote him a long letter, your rationale being: He started a fire, why should you spare him the smoke? (Listen to yourself. You talk like you are an avenging haze from Indonesia.)
You have stopped saying to your friends you are over him because you can’t seem to stay over him. You live in a dreamland with tarot as your new friend because who else can you trouble with impossible questions like: Did he read the letter? Will you see him again? (You did go to the Guanyin temple to get a divination but why did she say you were “carrying a ferocious tiger and climbing a steep mountain”? What did she mean exactly? But you couldn’t bring yourself to bother her again with your sesame-size crisis when so many other living beings need her.)
And so you wait on and on and on… Some days you are alone yet strong in your certainty that your encounter wasn’t random, that you will see him again. Other days you are alone and anxious…
ORANGE JUICE | Four
In my 20s I was actively looking for love – promiscuously chatting on IRC on a computer I fought over with my brothers, the one and only computer we had – and I found disaster. That might have been why I blotted it out later, the fact that you have to go and look for love, that it won’t come and find you. That might have been why I stopped looking.
But around Chinese New Year, going on a junket to Seoul again, it all came back to me. My first South Korea junket had been eight years ago, one day after I became single. Because it was too soon to speak of the break-up I didn’t; I passed the trip working, shopping and hearing E speak of her Korean guy. Only on the second Seoul junket four years later did I tell her. This year, on the way there with her again, I realised South Korea had become a bookmark in the blank notebook that was my love life, an eight-year blank, before she even asked me to update her.
I realised I hadn’t been doing enough about it, not as much as I had the last time. Signing up for OKCupid and Match.com and deleting messages from men wasn’t enough. I would have to get out and go out with some of them, which I resolved to do the morning I woke up in Seoul and found a blanket of snow outside the window, a landscape of hope.
Dating got quickly disheartening, though. Two promising guys – sporty, articulate Chinese Singaporeans, the sort who never ever asked me out at school – had written me before I went to Seoul and after I came back I asked to meet them. One of them was keener and we pencilled in a date. Then he said he would have sex with me in front of my family and that was the end of the discussion. The other kept saying he would meet me and that was all he was, talk.
The first guy I eventually met, a Taurean, was into sex or talking about it. By way of flirtation, he regaled me with his sexual history, proposed an open marriage and repeated a Russell Peters joke about overstretched sweaters and vaginas. I didn’t laugh. I wasn’t offended but he just wasn’t funny. Like, if I were to tell a woman a vagina joke 10 minutes into a first date, I would blow her away with my timing. (As I told Ms S about the date later she named the guy before I could repeat the whole joke. She also told me he had been named in an underage-sex case.)
The second guy, a Scorpian, was into cycling and sailing. He was sweet but I was bored.
The third guy, a Libran, I never intended to meet. Young, foreign, hot, he didn’t seem suitable. If I met him, I figured, it would be a break from the business of meeting potential marriage partners; a date with him would be a holiday from my life. But I didn’t say yes. A fourth guy wrote me, who was in Britain but would soon move to Singapore. A fifth guy asked to meet me at the weekend but stopped writing me one day before the weekend. Updating S on how I had been left high and dry, I said, “Then there’s a Libran but he’s 28.” And she said, “What’s wrong with 28?” And she had a point and still, I didn’t take him seriously.
But then I thought I would meet him at the weekend and not take him seriously and that was my mistake. Because when I met him I wanted to take him seriously. In the two minutes I walked with him from the train station to his place, I knew I had strolled into a holiday I didn’t want to end. But how could he take me seriously then, when I had sent him a “hey what r u doing today” message that sounded like a booty call, when he asked to meet me at his place and I didn’t say no?
Once I was young and stupid. Now I’m just stupid.
But around Chinese New Year, going on a junket to Seoul again, it all came back to me. My first South Korea junket had been eight years ago, one day after I became single. Because it was too soon to speak of the break-up I didn’t; I passed the trip working, shopping and hearing E speak of her Korean guy. Only on the second Seoul junket four years later did I tell her. This year, on the way there with her again, I realised South Korea had become a bookmark in the blank notebook that was my love life, an eight-year blank, before she even asked me to update her.
I realised I hadn’t been doing enough about it, not as much as I had the last time. Signing up for OKCupid and Match.com and deleting messages from men wasn’t enough. I would have to get out and go out with some of them, which I resolved to do the morning I woke up in Seoul and found a blanket of snow outside the window, a landscape of hope.
Dating got quickly disheartening, though. Two promising guys – sporty, articulate Chinese Singaporeans, the sort who never ever asked me out at school – had written me before I went to Seoul and after I came back I asked to meet them. One of them was keener and we pencilled in a date. Then he said he would have sex with me in front of my family and that was the end of the discussion. The other kept saying he would meet me and that was all he was, talk.
The first guy I eventually met, a Taurean, was into sex or talking about it. By way of flirtation, he regaled me with his sexual history, proposed an open marriage and repeated a Russell Peters joke about overstretched sweaters and vaginas. I didn’t laugh. I wasn’t offended but he just wasn’t funny. Like, if I were to tell a woman a vagina joke 10 minutes into a first date, I would blow her away with my timing. (As I told Ms S about the date later she named the guy before I could repeat the whole joke. She also told me he had been named in an underage-sex case.)
The second guy, a Scorpian, was into cycling and sailing. He was sweet but I was bored.
The third guy, a Libran, I never intended to meet. Young, foreign, hot, he didn’t seem suitable. If I met him, I figured, it would be a break from the business of meeting potential marriage partners; a date with him would be a holiday from my life. But I didn’t say yes. A fourth guy wrote me, who was in Britain but would soon move to Singapore. A fifth guy asked to meet me at the weekend but stopped writing me one day before the weekend. Updating S on how I had been left high and dry, I said, “Then there’s a Libran but he’s 28.” And she said, “What’s wrong with 28?” And she had a point and still, I didn’t take him seriously.
But then I thought I would meet him at the weekend and not take him seriously and that was my mistake. Because when I met him I wanted to take him seriously. In the two minutes I walked with him from the train station to his place, I knew I had strolled into a holiday I didn’t want to end. But how could he take me seriously then, when I had sent him a “hey what r u doing today” message that sounded like a booty call, when he asked to meet me at his place and I didn’t say no?
Once I was young and stupid. Now I’m just stupid.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
ORANGE JUICE | Three
That was a dream, that drizzly, dewy afternoon; she knows now. Even there and then it felt like a fantasy. It felt unreal but she wanted it to be real. She wanted it to be fate.
Guy met girl and he recognised her. She was the one standing at the train station the day before while he was waiting to meet some crazy from some dating app who wouldn’t give him her number. Now she was here again, same woman, same slinky dress. “That was you, I wanted it to be you,” he muttered.
She recognised him too and her heart dropped. Slim caramel man, thin face…he reminded her a little of somebody she had known…and why did he have to look so much better than his photo? Why did he have to speak so well and be so cute even when he didn’t seem so confident? Why did he have to smell so good? He was the type she had never, in her whole life, learnt to run from. No, she didn’t want to run and she walked up to his home with him but no, nothing really happened. Nothing that is real. Nothing that hasn’t evaporated, like dew in daylight. Something she will revisit in a never-ending daydream.
Guy met girl and he recognised her. She was the one standing at the train station the day before while he was waiting to meet some crazy from some dating app who wouldn’t give him her number. Now she was here again, same woman, same slinky dress. “That was you, I wanted it to be you,” he muttered.
She recognised him too and her heart dropped. Slim caramel man, thin face…he reminded her a little of somebody she had known…and why did he have to look so much better than his photo? Why did he have to speak so well and be so cute even when he didn’t seem so confident? Why did he have to smell so good? He was the type she had never, in her whole life, learnt to run from. No, she didn’t want to run and she walked up to his home with him but no, nothing really happened. Nothing that is real. Nothing that hasn’t evaporated, like dew in daylight. Something she will revisit in a never-ending daydream.
Saturday, May 04, 2013
ORANGE JUICE | Two
When you have been in a car crash, you try to be careful about being back on the road again.
You have rules: Be paranoid but not too paranoid. Look, really look, before you leap. Find out what someone is like, really like. Find out if he is reliable. Don’t jump into anything.
You have been careful for eight years now, and then in one afternoon you break most of your rules. You’re crazy after all. Who measures out her life with coffee spoons – thousands and thousands and thousands of spoonfuls – and then tosses all her spoons aside in one hour?
You’re a fool but you try to be a philosopher. You think – but you know you aren’t thinking and you aren’t a philosopher – what is one afternoon? What will it matter in a thousand years, when you have all turned to dust? Maybe nothing matters beyond this moment: this man, this woman, this moment.
Afterwards – because there will always be an afterwards, because some afternoons are eternal and fleeting, because some things are ending as they start – you’re happy, unhappy, loony, moony, hopeful, fretful, heartened, heartsick. You want him. You want him to keep wanting you. You believe things, you suppose things, few of which you dare say out loud, for fear they will disintegrate in contact with oxygen, sunshine and common sense. You’re flying at breakneck speed, you don’t know where you will land and you might break your bones. Yet some part of you which has been dead for years is, rightly or wrongly, beautifully or painfully, alive now; you’re alive, so alive.
You have rules: Be paranoid but not too paranoid. Look, really look, before you leap. Find out what someone is like, really like. Find out if he is reliable. Don’t jump into anything.
You have been careful for eight years now, and then in one afternoon you break most of your rules. You’re crazy after all. Who measures out her life with coffee spoons – thousands and thousands and thousands of spoonfuls – and then tosses all her spoons aside in one hour?
You’re a fool but you try to be a philosopher. You think – but you know you aren’t thinking and you aren’t a philosopher – what is one afternoon? What will it matter in a thousand years, when you have all turned to dust? Maybe nothing matters beyond this moment: this man, this woman, this moment.
Afterwards – because there will always be an afterwards, because some afternoons are eternal and fleeting, because some things are ending as they start – you’re happy, unhappy, loony, moony, hopeful, fretful, heartened, heartsick. You want him. You want him to keep wanting you. You believe things, you suppose things, few of which you dare say out loud, for fear they will disintegrate in contact with oxygen, sunshine and common sense. You’re flying at breakneck speed, you don’t know where you will land and you might break your bones. Yet some part of you which has been dead for years is, rightly or wrongly, beautifully or painfully, alive now; you’re alive, so alive.
ORANGE JUICE | One
Dinner with the girls is over; I haven’t had a drop to drink but I feel mellow, so mellow; I’m snug in a woven seat at Fei’s door, waiting for him to come home and pass me a spare set of house keys; the silence of the night is sweet, so sweet, and I seem to have slipped into a Korean show, where everything is more intense and I’m more present.
But here they come – I hear them before I see them – Fei as high as a kite, singing “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Mama” at the top of his lungs, Z gurgling and P giggling, pinker in the cheeks and prettier than I have ever seen her. Fei sees me and starts scolding me for forgetting my keys again but he sounds so happy, it comes out like a joke. Going in, he passes Z to me to fuss over a small birthday cake for P and as the birthday song is sung again, I’m so happy that I forgot my keys and got to see them so, so happy together.
Ambling home afterwards, I’m alone and yet it’s like I’m being hugged; I’m sober and yet it’s like I’ve had champagne. Which maybe I kinda did, hours before dinner.
But here they come – I hear them before I see them – Fei as high as a kite, singing “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Mama” at the top of his lungs, Z gurgling and P giggling, pinker in the cheeks and prettier than I have ever seen her. Fei sees me and starts scolding me for forgetting my keys again but he sounds so happy, it comes out like a joke. Going in, he passes Z to me to fuss over a small birthday cake for P and as the birthday song is sung again, I’m so happy that I forgot my keys and got to see them so, so happy together.
Ambling home afterwards, I’m alone and yet it’s like I’m being hugged; I’m sober and yet it’s like I’ve had champagne. Which maybe I kinda did, hours before dinner.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Autumn | Four
Paris. It is a city of such splendour and beauty, I come quite close to believing my life would be brighter, lovelier – better – if I could only be there. Being there with my mother is something else, however. Because I love Paris, I was a little anxious for her to like it and because I was a little anxious, I was less relaxed than I could have been; it was a state of mind somewhere between bringing a boyfriend home and taking your mum to your rendezvous with a lover. I would be planning our outings in Paris, right down to which dress I would wear to which museum; my mother would be reminding me to wear sensible shoes. She was right, sure. But when I am in Paris, in places as beautiful as the Musee de l’Orangerie and the Musee d’Orsay – being there is like being in an enormous yet delicate porcelain piece with see-through detail, through which the sun trickles in – I don’t want to be right. I want to be beautiful. (So, after traipsing, and then limping, along pebbly paths from museum to museum on pretty leg-lengthening platforms for a day, yes, I went back to plain moccasins. But I had to try, right? I had to.)
It must be said that my mother never means to be a party pooper. She is more of a good-natured, well-mannered gatecrasher who wants in on her children’s lives. Her son is going to Venice; can she join him and his girlfriend? Her daughter has gone to a crazy retro birthday bash in her dress; can’t she call and ask how the party is going? Does everyone like the dress? Let my mother in on any drama in your life and she may be more involved in it than you.
The Paris trip was to have been a present to myself. Something to stop the march of time; something to help me recall 2010 down the road, even as the rest of my life melts into one never-ending year. But knowing my mother – feeling her longing – I knew I had to take her with me on the trip. It would be a gift to her, to make up for her tedious trips with my father. I would let her in on my trip.
Was it a present she wanted though? I wonder. We had good days sightseeing and better days shopping in Paris. She was proud of her stamina. My father couldn’t have coped with my itinerary – going here and there on foot and getting lost on the way to this and that bistro – but she could. At the end of an exhausting summer day though (in July, the sun in Paris doesn’t set until 9pm), while we were waiting for darkness and sleepiness to descend, she would wonder what, and how, he was doing at home. He, a loner who isn’t good at being alone. “Sometimes I miss that stupid man.”
It wasn’t something she would have admitted at home. In our modest room in Paris, miles from our home, however, some things were more sayable. She worried aloud about everything. About Fei. About me. About things we hadn’t told her but she had sensed. It was dark and she was beside me on our bed, whispering intensely. “Why aren’t my children happy? Why are things hard for my children?”
I have no doubt, at such moments, that my mother is a drama queen. Nor do I doubt that the drama queen loves us. Even so, I had to shrink away when she asked me why, when I had a chance to be a wife and mother n years ago, I didn’t take it. Why didn’t I stick with someone I had picked? Why did I have a change of heart? Me. A marriage, however miserable, would have been something, wouldn’t it? I didn’t answer her. I wouldn’t. Not even to tell her she had her questions the wrong way around. Not even to tell her I was angry. How could she ask about such things now, after the unrepeatable things she said then? No, I had my reasons, mine, and I wasn’t letting her near them. The night was still; my mind was swirling with words I wouldn’t speak.
And yet. And yet. I began making assuring noises about Fei…the comforting things in his birth chart…I wanted to give my mother something, though it might not have been what she wanted. It was late. She is old. She shouldn’t have to worry about us in the wee hours of a Parisian night.
It must be said that my mother never means to be a party pooper. She is more of a good-natured, well-mannered gatecrasher who wants in on her children’s lives. Her son is going to Venice; can she join him and his girlfriend? Her daughter has gone to a crazy retro birthday bash in her dress; can’t she call and ask how the party is going? Does everyone like the dress? Let my mother in on any drama in your life and she may be more involved in it than you.
The Paris trip was to have been a present to myself. Something to stop the march of time; something to help me recall 2010 down the road, even as the rest of my life melts into one never-ending year. But knowing my mother – feeling her longing – I knew I had to take her with me on the trip. It would be a gift to her, to make up for her tedious trips with my father. I would let her in on my trip.
Was it a present she wanted though? I wonder. We had good days sightseeing and better days shopping in Paris. She was proud of her stamina. My father couldn’t have coped with my itinerary – going here and there on foot and getting lost on the way to this and that bistro – but she could. At the end of an exhausting summer day though (in July, the sun in Paris doesn’t set until 9pm), while we were waiting for darkness and sleepiness to descend, she would wonder what, and how, he was doing at home. He, a loner who isn’t good at being alone. “Sometimes I miss that stupid man.”
It wasn’t something she would have admitted at home. In our modest room in Paris, miles from our home, however, some things were more sayable. She worried aloud about everything. About Fei. About me. About things we hadn’t told her but she had sensed. It was dark and she was beside me on our bed, whispering intensely. “Why aren’t my children happy? Why are things hard for my children?”
I have no doubt, at such moments, that my mother is a drama queen. Nor do I doubt that the drama queen loves us. Even so, I had to shrink away when she asked me why, when I had a chance to be a wife and mother n years ago, I didn’t take it. Why didn’t I stick with someone I had picked? Why did I have a change of heart? Me. A marriage, however miserable, would have been something, wouldn’t it? I didn’t answer her. I wouldn’t. Not even to tell her she had her questions the wrong way around. Not even to tell her I was angry. How could she ask about such things now, after the unrepeatable things she said then? No, I had my reasons, mine, and I wasn’t letting her near them. The night was still; my mind was swirling with words I wouldn’t speak.
And yet. And yet. I began making assuring noises about Fei…the comforting things in his birth chart…I wanted to give my mother something, though it might not have been what she wanted. It was late. She is old. She shouldn’t have to worry about us in the wee hours of a Parisian night.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Autumn | Three
In July, I took Ma to Paris; in June, after a trip to Tokyo, Fei gave Pa a handsome Japanese automatic watch.
Pa was so, so pleased with the watch. When someone asked him about it he would say, “It isn’t expensive, it’s a few hundred dollars.” But, yes, “it is quite elegant, Fei has made quite a clever choice”. He would beam and it was a look that though I had never seen before, I knew from an account of his early years. When he was four or five, Grandma would say, he liked to dress up and so, so loved to wear his little shirt with little golden buttons.
Watches and habits: I have known them to be important to him since I was little. And knowing his birth chart now, I know just how important they are to him – to the needs and wellbeing of the little boy inside. I look at my parents’ marriage though and it seems my father’s needs have been more than met. Wherever they go in the world they always stay in his comfort zone; he always gets his full hour of pre-dawn exercise, four glasses of water before breakfast and post-dinner fruit (pineapple, preferably); my mother always comes home exhausted. Between the sunrise-to-sunset package-tour itinerary and his morning routine (when he is up and about exercising she is up and about packing) she doesn’t get much sleep.
I look at her and at her chart – and I see the little girl inside. The girl who just wants to have fun. The girl who is tired of travelling with the old guy. The girl who, days after declaring she has travelled enough for the year, leafs through the tour ads again (“I’m just looking”).
When I was planning a trip to Paris I knew I had to take Ma. Just her. So it was a good thing that Fei gave Pa the watch. We didn’t even discuss it, Fei and I; we were just on the same wavelength.
Pa was so, so pleased with the watch. When someone asked him about it he would say, “It isn’t expensive, it’s a few hundred dollars.” But, yes, “it is quite elegant, Fei has made quite a clever choice”. He would beam and it was a look that though I had never seen before, I knew from an account of his early years. When he was four or five, Grandma would say, he liked to dress up and so, so loved to wear his little shirt with little golden buttons.
Watches and habits: I have known them to be important to him since I was little. And knowing his birth chart now, I know just how important they are to him – to the needs and wellbeing of the little boy inside. I look at my parents’ marriage though and it seems my father’s needs have been more than met. Wherever they go in the world they always stay in his comfort zone; he always gets his full hour of pre-dawn exercise, four glasses of water before breakfast and post-dinner fruit (pineapple, preferably); my mother always comes home exhausted. Between the sunrise-to-sunset package-tour itinerary and his morning routine (when he is up and about exercising she is up and about packing) she doesn’t get much sleep.
I look at her and at her chart – and I see the little girl inside. The girl who just wants to have fun. The girl who is tired of travelling with the old guy. The girl who, days after declaring she has travelled enough for the year, leafs through the tour ads again (“I’m just looking”).
When I was planning a trip to Paris I knew I had to take Ma. Just her. So it was a good thing that Fei gave Pa the watch. We didn’t even discuss it, Fei and I; we were just on the same wavelength.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Autumn | Two
Theirs has been a noisy, not-unhappy marriage. This is something I say factually and hopefully, as a daughter and war correspondent.
This is how I know I am a rubbish reporter: I have been embedded in their marriage for decades, yet whenever I wake up to the rumble and crackle, it makes me uneasy even now. My mind, still in a fog of sleep, struggles to unscramble the shouting. Are they in the kitchen? Who’s on the defensive? Who’s on the offensive? Is it a dispute over the transfer of boiling water from kettle to dispenser, the watering of plants or…yoga? World War Three? Another of their silly romcom skirmishes?
Sometimes one of them starts giggling and I go back to sleep. Sometimes it dawns on me that they are discussing dinner the evening before – what they truly, vehemently think of the Hong Kong liver sausage I bought, which they couldn’t and didn’t tell me during dinner – and my ears prick up. At other times they stop fighting only after one of them goes out, which is when I get out of bed to assess the damage. “What is it now?” I say, careful to sound neutral. Adult. What were you kids fighting over? Was he overreacting to something you said or were you overstating it? If it is serious I don’t joke. If it isn’t I say, “So divorce him.”
When I was younger it was harder to be neutral, much less jokey. Then, as now, only one side called the news conferences. We had only one side of the story, hers, and we sided with her, naturally. As it was, our experience of his work was second-hand but our familiarity with her work – the things she did for us, for our family, for our extended family – was first-hand. I grew up with the idea of marriage as loads of hard work, requiring resolve and professionalism, which I should somehow master for someone someday.
In all fairness to her, she tried to be fair. After her angry sobs subsided, after she had told us angry, terrible things about him, she would tell us about his terrible childhood. She would try to explain to us and to herself that he wasn’t a brute, that he had suppressed too long his helpless anger as a boy. She would tell us they were effectively orphans who had found their family in each other, she who had lost her mother to illness and he who had lost his to madness. She would say, “Your father is a good man.”
I believed her. But it didn’t make the fights less upsetting for me. It was fun only after one very violent fight, when she took us to her uncle’s for the weekend. He had a car! He took us to McDonald’s! It was a holiday from our lives. I remember how calm and comfy – how unreal – it was in the car as we sucked coke through straws and gave uncertain answers about what our parents had fought over.
We had to live with the tension otherwise, waiting one night, two nights, three nights for the cold war to end, for one of them to start speaking to the other at dinner.
Only when I was older did I understand how isolated Pa must have felt after a fight. He might have felt frozen out by his family. Once he went missing before dinner and Ma sent Fei to search the neighbourhood. He was found looking a little lost at a playground.
He’s more relaxed around us now. It has taken him some 30 years to be more relaxed but he’s here, sort of. While Ma is unquestionably ours and we are unquestionably hers, Pa has been more like our host and we have been more like his guests. When he gives us a speech about university, about love, about life, it’s exactly that: a speech some adult gives to some children, not necessarily his. After all the years we have lived under his roof, however, he is familiar enough with us to tell us his side of the story sometimes.
One morning months ago, after some 40 years, my father finally tells me how he met my mother. We are having brunch one Saturday, the two of us, and out of the blue he tells me he hadn’t just seen her one day in an alley in Kota Bharu. He had also heard her, “that loud woman”, coming and going from her aunt’s house next door. “Suk Mei,” she would greet her aunt so loudly, though so sweetly, that their houses would all rattle. (“She rocked his world,” I think to myself.)
Another morning, he tells me how his dates with that boisterous girl set the tone for the marriage. “We would go out and before I could ask her what she wanted to eat, she would ask me. We would be going home and before I could say, ‘Let’s hail a taxi,’ she would be raising up a hand to flag down a taxi.”
It is no news conference but it is the closest he has come to an acknowledgement that money matters apart, he has left to her much of the heavy lifting in their marriage. Because she could. Because she can. Because she is forceful, fearless.
This is how I know I am a rubbish reporter: I have been embedded in their marriage for decades, yet whenever I wake up to the rumble and crackle, it makes me uneasy even now. My mind, still in a fog of sleep, struggles to unscramble the shouting. Are they in the kitchen? Who’s on the defensive? Who’s on the offensive? Is it a dispute over the transfer of boiling water from kettle to dispenser, the watering of plants or…yoga? World War Three? Another of their silly romcom skirmishes?
Sometimes one of them starts giggling and I go back to sleep. Sometimes it dawns on me that they are discussing dinner the evening before – what they truly, vehemently think of the Hong Kong liver sausage I bought, which they couldn’t and didn’t tell me during dinner – and my ears prick up. At other times they stop fighting only after one of them goes out, which is when I get out of bed to assess the damage. “What is it now?” I say, careful to sound neutral. Adult. What were you kids fighting over? Was he overreacting to something you said or were you overstating it? If it is serious I don’t joke. If it isn’t I say, “So divorce him.”
When I was younger it was harder to be neutral, much less jokey. Then, as now, only one side called the news conferences. We had only one side of the story, hers, and we sided with her, naturally. As it was, our experience of his work was second-hand but our familiarity with her work – the things she did for us, for our family, for our extended family – was first-hand. I grew up with the idea of marriage as loads of hard work, requiring resolve and professionalism, which I should somehow master for someone someday.
In all fairness to her, she tried to be fair. After her angry sobs subsided, after she had told us angry, terrible things about him, she would tell us about his terrible childhood. She would try to explain to us and to herself that he wasn’t a brute, that he had suppressed too long his helpless anger as a boy. She would tell us they were effectively orphans who had found their family in each other, she who had lost her mother to illness and he who had lost his to madness. She would say, “Your father is a good man.”
I believed her. But it didn’t make the fights less upsetting for me. It was fun only after one very violent fight, when she took us to her uncle’s for the weekend. He had a car! He took us to McDonald’s! It was a holiday from our lives. I remember how calm and comfy – how unreal – it was in the car as we sucked coke through straws and gave uncertain answers about what our parents had fought over.
We had to live with the tension otherwise, waiting one night, two nights, three nights for the cold war to end, for one of them to start speaking to the other at dinner.
Only when I was older did I understand how isolated Pa must have felt after a fight. He might have felt frozen out by his family. Once he went missing before dinner and Ma sent Fei to search the neighbourhood. He was found looking a little lost at a playground.
He’s more relaxed around us now. It has taken him some 30 years to be more relaxed but he’s here, sort of. While Ma is unquestionably ours and we are unquestionably hers, Pa has been more like our host and we have been more like his guests. When he gives us a speech about university, about love, about life, it’s exactly that: a speech some adult gives to some children, not necessarily his. After all the years we have lived under his roof, however, he is familiar enough with us to tell us his side of the story sometimes.
One morning months ago, after some 40 years, my father finally tells me how he met my mother. We are having brunch one Saturday, the two of us, and out of the blue he tells me he hadn’t just seen her one day in an alley in Kota Bharu. He had also heard her, “that loud woman”, coming and going from her aunt’s house next door. “Suk Mei,” she would greet her aunt so loudly, though so sweetly, that their houses would all rattle. (“She rocked his world,” I think to myself.)
Another morning, he tells me how his dates with that boisterous girl set the tone for the marriage. “We would go out and before I could ask her what she wanted to eat, she would ask me. We would be going home and before I could say, ‘Let’s hail a taxi,’ she would be raising up a hand to flag down a taxi.”
It is no news conference but it is the closest he has come to an acknowledgement that money matters apart, he has left to her much of the heavy lifting in their marriage. Because she could. Because she can. Because she is forceful, fearless.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Autumn | One
It has been quieter in the house, greyer and glummer. It has been autumn for a year, really, since Fei married P and moved across the street. A couple of days after his marriage I added him as a Facebook friend, figuring we would need a proxy den of some sort to still be plugged into each other’s lives. It isn’t the same though.
Scrolling up and down your Facebook homepage for your brother’s status updates isn’t the same as being plugged into the quotidian rhythms of his life – the comings and goings, the gripes and jokes, the slouching and shuffling, the stuff and nonsense, the sleepy guitar-strumming and drowsy late-night chatting – the background buzz of your life you took for granted for the longest time.
Our childhood had been a long, long winter. Gothic, almost. We feared our father, who was combustible as an anxious young father (always anxious about how he was to afford us all), and we learnt to tiptoe round him as young children. He wasn’t violent towards us; only towards my little rocking horse, which he smashed in a rage when I was too small to remember. I knew he would never hurt me; we knew better than to trigger one of his explosions, however. We were never to be noisy at night when, at the end of a working day, he came home to our three-room and went to his room to cram for his numerous ACCA exams. We had to be good, go to the playground downstairs and stay there with our mother. We were the last to leave, at times long after we tired of playing in the sand, after the others had gone home and gone to bed. Fei, the sleepyhead, would be all bleary-eyed before we could trudge home.
If and when our mother took us shopping – if and when she got us something ever so slightly costly – we would agree to report a much lower price to our father. He didn’t (and doesn’t) like onions so we wouldn’t get any at night. We got them in the day in our mother’s rice vermicelli stew. It was our favourite food; it was our secret food. He didn’t like listening to SBC Mandarin so we would watch serials on the sly. When he went on his first business trip we went on a spree too: a month to openly watch an SBC serial from start to finish! It was a luxury for our mother too, much as she did miss him.
Things thawed out a little, after he gave up the exams and swopped one set of habits (exams and cigarettes) for another (exercise and oat). Then Bak was born and with him, spring. Our father was out of a job in a recession year, the worst year to have one more child. Yet, Bak was for us, from the first day, a happy child. A child we were glad to have. He was born during the school holidays, the day after our mother did her all Chinese New Year shopping in advance of the confinement. If she had cabbed back, if she had not bussed back and hauled bags of food home from the bus stop, if she had not been so cost-conscious, he might not have arrived so soon. But he did and the fact that he was born weeks too soon for a tax rebate was something our father joked about. He didn’t mind too much. Bak got a dad quite different from the one we got.
Then Grandma (the woman kept in the metaphorical attic of our house, in my room) died. We got jobs, Fei and I. Ma and Pa’s worries melted away, most of them. Summer was upon us – seven, eight, nine years of it.
It is no more though. On the wall of portraits in the living room there is a new addition, two photographs of the newlyweds in one frame (a work by Biu Suk, like all the portraits on the wall). The house is barer though. They come home now and then for dinner (our home), stop for a while for whatever is showing on television and go home (their home). The house is quieter – but there they go again, Ma and Pa, going at each other, louder and louder. Isn’t it a relief.
Scrolling up and down your Facebook homepage for your brother’s status updates isn’t the same as being plugged into the quotidian rhythms of his life – the comings and goings, the gripes and jokes, the slouching and shuffling, the stuff and nonsense, the sleepy guitar-strumming and drowsy late-night chatting – the background buzz of your life you took for granted for the longest time.
Our childhood had been a long, long winter. Gothic, almost. We feared our father, who was combustible as an anxious young father (always anxious about how he was to afford us all), and we learnt to tiptoe round him as young children. He wasn’t violent towards us; only towards my little rocking horse, which he smashed in a rage when I was too small to remember. I knew he would never hurt me; we knew better than to trigger one of his explosions, however. We were never to be noisy at night when, at the end of a working day, he came home to our three-room and went to his room to cram for his numerous ACCA exams. We had to be good, go to the playground downstairs and stay there with our mother. We were the last to leave, at times long after we tired of playing in the sand, after the others had gone home and gone to bed. Fei, the sleepyhead, would be all bleary-eyed before we could trudge home.
If and when our mother took us shopping – if and when she got us something ever so slightly costly – we would agree to report a much lower price to our father. He didn’t (and doesn’t) like onions so we wouldn’t get any at night. We got them in the day in our mother’s rice vermicelli stew. It was our favourite food; it was our secret food. He didn’t like listening to SBC Mandarin so we would watch serials on the sly. When he went on his first business trip we went on a spree too: a month to openly watch an SBC serial from start to finish! It was a luxury for our mother too, much as she did miss him.
Things thawed out a little, after he gave up the exams and swopped one set of habits (exams and cigarettes) for another (exercise and oat). Then Bak was born and with him, spring. Our father was out of a job in a recession year, the worst year to have one more child. Yet, Bak was for us, from the first day, a happy child. A child we were glad to have. He was born during the school holidays, the day after our mother did her all Chinese New Year shopping in advance of the confinement. If she had cabbed back, if she had not bussed back and hauled bags of food home from the bus stop, if she had not been so cost-conscious, he might not have arrived so soon. But he did and the fact that he was born weeks too soon for a tax rebate was something our father joked about. He didn’t mind too much. Bak got a dad quite different from the one we got.
Then Grandma (the woman kept in the metaphorical attic of our house, in my room) died. We got jobs, Fei and I. Ma and Pa’s worries melted away, most of them. Summer was upon us – seven, eight, nine years of it.
It is no more though. On the wall of portraits in the living room there is a new addition, two photographs of the newlyweds in one frame (a work by Biu Suk, like all the portraits on the wall). The house is barer though. They come home now and then for dinner (our home), stop for a while for whatever is showing on television and go home (their home). The house is quieter – but there they go again, Ma and Pa, going at each other, louder and louder. Isn’t it a relief.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
AFTERWARDS | Four
Funerals are funny. You lay a man to rest and you want to put all your issues with him in a box and lay them to rest too. You want to, and it is a little like asking a jack-in-the-box not to jump. Days after my uncle’s death – and before his cremation – the jack-in-the-box jumped. Thumped us in the face.
It was Hari Raya Puasa, we were walking homewards from brunch and Fei had to ask, did Suk repay that loan to Biu Suk? I tried to put the lid on it – “he did, he did; Biu Suk said so one New Year” – but the lid refused to behave.
Fei: (Lifting the lid) He repaid everything?
Me: (Snapping the lid shut) He did, he did –
My mother: (Lifting) He didn’t –
Me: (Snapping) Didn’t he –
Back and forth we went till we found ourselves in a fight. I was bothered that my mother couldn’t forgive and forget; she was bothered that I was behaving like my father, that I was siding with my father and my uncle against her, that everyone was siding with everyone else against her. No one loved her and no one treasured her and no one sided with her. We got home and still she roared. “Nobody!”
Nobody? That was inaccurate, that was so inaccurate and now I was angry. (Trust me to go journo at the weirdest time.) Although she wasn’t all wrong about my father and me “breathing through the same nostril”, she was wrong about my brother. Fei, who has a telepathic bond with her. Who had been angrier at my uncle than I had been, on her behalf. Whose loyalty to her is never in question. “That isn’t right. Nobody isn’t right. Your son loves you. That isn’t nobody.”
“I know. Fei knows me best.”
“Good. So don’t say nobody!”
It was Hari Raya Puasa, we were walking homewards from brunch and Fei had to ask, did Suk repay that loan to Biu Suk? I tried to put the lid on it – “he did, he did; Biu Suk said so one New Year” – but the lid refused to behave.
Fei: (Lifting the lid) He repaid everything?
Me: (Snapping the lid shut) He did, he did –
My mother: (Lifting) He didn’t –
Me: (Snapping) Didn’t he –
Back and forth we went till we found ourselves in a fight. I was bothered that my mother couldn’t forgive and forget; she was bothered that I was behaving like my father, that I was siding with my father and my uncle against her, that everyone was siding with everyone else against her. No one loved her and no one treasured her and no one sided with her. We got home and still she roared. “Nobody!”
Nobody? That was inaccurate, that was so inaccurate and now I was angry. (Trust me to go journo at the weirdest time.) Although she wasn’t all wrong about my father and me “breathing through the same nostril”, she was wrong about my brother. Fei, who has a telepathic bond with her. Who had been angrier at my uncle than I had been, on her behalf. Whose loyalty to her is never in question. “That isn’t right. Nobody isn’t right. Your son loves you. That isn’t nobody.”
“I know. Fei knows me best.”
“Good. So don’t say nobody!”
Saturday, September 19, 2009
AFTERWARDS | Three
My uncle died today.
We had never liked him; we had barely known him, actually. We met him and his wife three times a year, on Chinese New Year’s Eve, Chinese New Year and Qingming. We met them four times this year because of Fei’s wedding, which was such a historic, happy day that my brother, when he was very, very, very drunk, hugged my uncle. (But not my aunt; he was smashed but not that smashed.)
Like and dislike are such trivialities in the end. You don’t have to like a man to hold his wailing widow in the mortuary. You don’t have to like her to help her file the paperwork. You just have to be adult and be around. Their daughter had to go get her kids. Their son-in-law had gone to Hong Kong. This is what family means: When they’ve got no one you are all they’ve got.
My father had hardly known his own brother and parents. Theirs was a star-crossed family who never had one meal together. Not a single meal, my father marvelled today while we were making our way home. To all intents and purposes, the brothers were orphaned by Woodbridge and separated by the recession in the Sixties, when my father had to work up north in Kota Bharu or starve. “We never had a close bond like you and Fei. We never were together long.”
Yet, previous to his seven years in Kota Bharu, when he was jobless and distressed for eight months, when he was down-and-out, “your uncle gave me $2 a week, and he paid for my haircuts, and for New Year he gave me $5”. He smiled ever so slightly at the recollection. Once upon a time, before there were wives and issues, a 15-year-old who was paid $40 a month gave an 18-year-old comfort because they were brothers. That 15-year-old died today.
We had never liked him; we had barely known him, actually. We met him and his wife three times a year, on Chinese New Year’s Eve, Chinese New Year and Qingming. We met them four times this year because of Fei’s wedding, which was such a historic, happy day that my brother, when he was very, very, very drunk, hugged my uncle. (But not my aunt; he was smashed but not that smashed.)
Like and dislike are such trivialities in the end. You don’t have to like a man to hold his wailing widow in the mortuary. You don’t have to like her to help her file the paperwork. You just have to be adult and be around. Their daughter had to go get her kids. Their son-in-law had gone to Hong Kong. This is what family means: When they’ve got no one you are all they’ve got.
My father had hardly known his own brother and parents. Theirs was a star-crossed family who never had one meal together. Not a single meal, my father marvelled today while we were making our way home. To all intents and purposes, the brothers were orphaned by Woodbridge and separated by the recession in the Sixties, when my father had to work up north in Kota Bharu or starve. “We never had a close bond like you and Fei. We never were together long.”
Yet, previous to his seven years in Kota Bharu, when he was jobless and distressed for eight months, when he was down-and-out, “your uncle gave me $2 a week, and he paid for my haircuts, and for New Year he gave me $5”. He smiled ever so slightly at the recollection. Once upon a time, before there were wives and issues, a 15-year-old who was paid $40 a month gave an 18-year-old comfort because they were brothers. That 15-year-old died today.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
AFTERWARDS | Two
At the banquet my mother admitted within the hearing of just about anyone, she would be happier to be marrying me off. “Well, maybe when you are 80,” I would say to her, which she would then translate to her friends as, “She wants me to wait. She wants me to live longer.”
Well, although it was just her son’s wedding, she was on a high. Everyone was happy that evening. They loved her dress (so deluxe!) and her hair (so tall!). They loved the restaurant (so red, so retro, so festive!), the cooking (so ample!) and the live singing (so fun!). They were happier than they had ever been at other people’s banquets, surely. Her one and only regret was that when Fei got smashed at the end of that evening and kissed her between 22 and 852 times – we lost count – she was too shocked to kiss him back.
She was over the moon for two days; on day three she crashed back down to earth. I had spied in the fridge a carton of the soya milk we always bought for Fei’s breakfast and said matter-of-factly, “We needn’t buy this any more.” In an instant she was teary. The meaning of the wedding on a daily basis was suddenly clear; the innumerable small things she did for her son, which were equal to a chunk of her everyday existence, someone else would do henceforth; when he came back from his honeymoon he would go home to his apartment and not ours.
Before that week was over she had bumped both her knees accidentally, one time on the hill around the corner and another time right against the fridge. Her legs were swollen and swathed in bandages. She would bump into somebody in the neighbourhood some mornings, start to speak about the honeymooners and cry. She was having a breakdown of sorts, although she didn’t and couldn’t quite collapse. We needed her. We had to live on leftovers (from the buffet and the gorgeous, gorgeous roast pig). We needed her to do some delicious things with the scraps.
Well, although it was just her son’s wedding, she was on a high. Everyone was happy that evening. They loved her dress (so deluxe!) and her hair (so tall!). They loved the restaurant (so red, so retro, so festive!), the cooking (so ample!) and the live singing (so fun!). They were happier than they had ever been at other people’s banquets, surely. Her one and only regret was that when Fei got smashed at the end of that evening and kissed her between 22 and 852 times – we lost count – she was too shocked to kiss him back.
She was over the moon for two days; on day three she crashed back down to earth. I had spied in the fridge a carton of the soya milk we always bought for Fei’s breakfast and said matter-of-factly, “We needn’t buy this any more.” In an instant she was teary. The meaning of the wedding on a daily basis was suddenly clear; the innumerable small things she did for her son, which were equal to a chunk of her everyday existence, someone else would do henceforth; when he came back from his honeymoon he would go home to his apartment and not ours.
Before that week was over she had bumped both her knees accidentally, one time on the hill around the corner and another time right against the fridge. Her legs were swollen and swathed in bandages. She would bump into somebody in the neighbourhood some mornings, start to speak about the honeymooners and cry. She was having a breakdown of sorts, although she didn’t and couldn’t quite collapse. We needed her. We had to live on leftovers (from the buffet and the gorgeous, gorgeous roast pig). We needed her to do some delicious things with the scraps.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
AFTERWARDS | One
So it is done. Sometime one Sunday, a cloudless day which was a dozen Chinese New Years condensed into a day, within the couple of auspicious hours when the groom whisked the bride off to his house to serve tea to his elders, Fei married P.
What with all the last-minute things to attend to – here’s the red bucket to fill with rice for the coming-of-age combing ceremony; there’s the roast pig, somebody pay the man please; now, where’s the buffet and will you rinse the teacups and refill the teapot, you, yes, you – the day, to me, came and went in a haze of exhaustion, heat, excitement and something. A slow, slinking something which might have been…
One thing I felt, if I felt anything, was the goodwill: how much people love my parents and, by extension, my brothers and me. My father is not one to ask too much of anybody else (my mother excepted); happily, his old friends are the sort to show up unbidden, to invite themselves to the important occasions of his life. On the big day two of them, Auntie and Uncle J, were here at eight to help the first-time father-in-law and mother-in-law with everything – in particular, the arcane Chinese-wedding protocol – as if it were their own son marrying.
Auntie J, who married into a traditional Teochew family, was the most senior daughter-in-law and the longest-suffering before her mother-in-law passed away. She is a veteran of a very Chinese household who, in any domestic affair, knows when to stand by, when to step in and when to softly suggest something to someone. As she stood by me during the tea ceremony and helped me with the teacups, all five of which had to be rinsed and refilled over and over again, round after round, she felt like family - more so than a couple of blood relations who didn’t lift a finger. When she told me to do whatever I just did it, regardless of my misgivings. Whatever I might have felt about a symbolic assertion of authority, when she told me to hold my head high as I stood and sipped the tea served by P – “you have to be higher than her” – I just held my head high as I stood and sipped the tea served by P. (I would not understand until later it was a pre-emptive strike, until I received a ritual gift from P’s mother, a woven basket laden with beauty products and meaning. It said – please, allow my mother to translate – go get dolled up, go get hitched, don’t mess with my daughter. After all, the Chinese wedding customs are a relic from the age before the nuclear family, when to marry into a large family was, nine times out of 10, to march into a theatre of war. You faced not only your husband but also his mother, his aunts, his sisters, his sister-in-laws and other discontented women. Whomever your family could neutralise or get on your side they would.)
The other thing I felt…I might have imagined. Something, though unspoken, was understood as Fei got sloshed towards the end of the banquet. He was in high spirits, absolutely, and so were we. I was somehow certain though that on the one hand his would be a solid marriage and that on the other hand the solidness of the marriage would be weighty. Possibilities that had ceased to be possible. Doors that had been closed. I imagined them. I lamented them. Then we lugged our brother to the bridal suite, I helped his bride out of her dress and we left them with each other.
What with all the last-minute things to attend to – here’s the red bucket to fill with rice for the coming-of-age combing ceremony; there’s the roast pig, somebody pay the man please; now, where’s the buffet and will you rinse the teacups and refill the teapot, you, yes, you – the day, to me, came and went in a haze of exhaustion, heat, excitement and something. A slow, slinking something which might have been…
One thing I felt, if I felt anything, was the goodwill: how much people love my parents and, by extension, my brothers and me. My father is not one to ask too much of anybody else (my mother excepted); happily, his old friends are the sort to show up unbidden, to invite themselves to the important occasions of his life. On the big day two of them, Auntie and Uncle J, were here at eight to help the first-time father-in-law and mother-in-law with everything – in particular, the arcane Chinese-wedding protocol – as if it were their own son marrying.
Auntie J, who married into a traditional Teochew family, was the most senior daughter-in-law and the longest-suffering before her mother-in-law passed away. She is a veteran of a very Chinese household who, in any domestic affair, knows when to stand by, when to step in and when to softly suggest something to someone. As she stood by me during the tea ceremony and helped me with the teacups, all five of which had to be rinsed and refilled over and over again, round after round, she felt like family - more so than a couple of blood relations who didn’t lift a finger. When she told me to do whatever I just did it, regardless of my misgivings. Whatever I might have felt about a symbolic assertion of authority, when she told me to hold my head high as I stood and sipped the tea served by P – “you have to be higher than her” – I just held my head high as I stood and sipped the tea served by P. (I would not understand until later it was a pre-emptive strike, until I received a ritual gift from P’s mother, a woven basket laden with beauty products and meaning. It said – please, allow my mother to translate – go get dolled up, go get hitched, don’t mess with my daughter. After all, the Chinese wedding customs are a relic from the age before the nuclear family, when to marry into a large family was, nine times out of 10, to march into a theatre of war. You faced not only your husband but also his mother, his aunts, his sisters, his sister-in-laws and other discontented women. Whomever your family could neutralise or get on your side they would.)
The other thing I felt…I might have imagined. Something, though unspoken, was understood as Fei got sloshed towards the end of the banquet. He was in high spirits, absolutely, and so were we. I was somehow certain though that on the one hand his would be a solid marriage and that on the other hand the solidness of the marriage would be weighty. Possibilities that had ceased to be possible. Doors that had been closed. I imagined them. I lamented them. Then we lugged our brother to the bridal suite, I helped his bride out of her dress and we left them with each other.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The sister hen diaries
Bak is back from America and with him the spontaneous singing, the epic eating and the spectre of swine flu. “You sure you don’t have swine flu and mine isn’t swine cough?” I say for the umpteenth time, all sputtering and sniffing. “Don’t have.”
“You snorting like a pig?” Dr Fei checks. “No.” “Do you have fever?” “Don’t have.” “It isn’t swine flu.” Oh, so I am not dying? Okay, doc.
My mother is relieved. She has been holding herself back for months. Now she can go back to cooking for an army, secure in the knowledge that Bak will clean us out. “I have forgotten how much he eats,” she says with what can only be called a mother’s pride.
We are a full house once more, a happier one. Here are the sounds of mostly affectionate abuse – nothing unites us more than a baby, our 22-year-old baby boy – and there, in the lift lobby within spitting distance of our door, is the sound of our American Idol courageously attempting Chinese pop. (The notion that neighbours and other innocent individuals might hear him has never stopped him before. Why now, when he is mastering a Crowd Lu? Shui lai jiu wo-aaa-eeeee… Well…maybe mastering is not quite the word for what he does to the song.)
The party boy is back, as is the party. But it is just for a few days more. Fei is marrying P and moving out; change is afoot. It creeps up on me one night, amidst the pitch blackness of sleep, when I hear someone shuffle into my room. “Gor, wrong room…?” I mumble. (How did I know it was Fei? I just knew. When you have lived long enough with someone – since you were one year old – you just have a sixth sense.)
In Fei’s house, his room is on his right when he has to half-sleep-half-walk to it after a late-night tinkle. In the twilight zone between the ROM and the Chinese marriage ceremony, he has been staying there only once a week, enough for his muscles to have memorised it, however: for him to be making the wrong turn here. On some subconscious level, unbeknownst to me before, he doesn’t live here any more. Might it be why, hours later, I dream of an earthquake? I am in M’s house in Tokyo when the tremors start. (She is alive again, yes, and it is a sweet surprise.) We are shaking with the little house and watching skyscrapers crumble one after another like tall cakes. Still, the house stays in one piece and so do we.
Bak is back but Fei is leaving but we’re going to stay in one piece. Aren’t we?
“You snorting like a pig?” Dr Fei checks. “No.” “Do you have fever?” “Don’t have.” “It isn’t swine flu.” Oh, so I am not dying? Okay, doc.
My mother is relieved. She has been holding herself back for months. Now she can go back to cooking for an army, secure in the knowledge that Bak will clean us out. “I have forgotten how much he eats,” she says with what can only be called a mother’s pride.
We are a full house once more, a happier one. Here are the sounds of mostly affectionate abuse – nothing unites us more than a baby, our 22-year-old baby boy – and there, in the lift lobby within spitting distance of our door, is the sound of our American Idol courageously attempting Chinese pop. (The notion that neighbours and other innocent individuals might hear him has never stopped him before. Why now, when he is mastering a Crowd Lu? Shui lai jiu wo-aaa-eeeee… Well…maybe mastering is not quite the word for what he does to the song.)
The party boy is back, as is the party. But it is just for a few days more. Fei is marrying P and moving out; change is afoot. It creeps up on me one night, amidst the pitch blackness of sleep, when I hear someone shuffle into my room. “Gor, wrong room…?” I mumble. (How did I know it was Fei? I just knew. When you have lived long enough with someone – since you were one year old – you just have a sixth sense.)
In Fei’s house, his room is on his right when he has to half-sleep-half-walk to it after a late-night tinkle. In the twilight zone between the ROM and the Chinese marriage ceremony, he has been staying there only once a week, enough for his muscles to have memorised it, however: for him to be making the wrong turn here. On some subconscious level, unbeknownst to me before, he doesn’t live here any more. Might it be why, hours later, I dream of an earthquake? I am in M’s house in Tokyo when the tremors start. (She is alive again, yes, and it is a sweet surprise.) We are shaking with the little house and watching skyscrapers crumble one after another like tall cakes. Still, the house stays in one piece and so do we.
Bak is back but Fei is leaving but we’re going to stay in one piece. Aren’t we?
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Hong Kong and I
People with only a passing acquaintance with me know I love Taipei. Mention Taipei to me and I say, “Taipei? I love Taipei!” (Or, “Taipei? Jay Chou! I love Jay Chou!”) I am as animated and unsurprising as a wind-up toy about the city I have loved like a boy with a new toy.
Hong Kong and I, we are quieter. I go to Hong Kong as, I imagine, a man goes home to his wife. There is more than a touch of inevitability; it has been years since anyone said anything about love; she is too tired to even look at him today. She is old and ordinary – and he sees it – and yet she is somehow lovely.
So it is with Hong Kong and me. As a very Cantonese girl going there for the very first time in the 1990s I was a little like a visitor at a club realising I had membership after all. (I had done my homework. When classmates busied themselves with foreign languages I filled my timetable with Cantonese, from the TVB shows on TV3 to the Leslie Cheung concert on LD.) I have gone there a zillion times since. Only on the trip before last, however, did I see for the first time in years how gorgeous Hong Kong was. A city of peaks and harbours, thrills and spills, alive with buildings and billboards and bamboo scaffolding coming at you at all angles such that when you and your tram go around them intact it feels as spectacular as a Jackie Chan stunt and as exquisite as a taiji exercise; a city of accidental Daoist aesthetics. On the last trip I was floored by how posh Hong Kong was. To go to ifc mall is to grasp once and for all that we don’t know how to do posh; they do. On this trip I saw Hong Kong’s trees. I was with S, who was visiting for the first time, and whenever she stopped to photograph trees I saw them too, pushing their way out of walls along sloping, winding streets. I saw the banyans on Nathan Road. I had never noticed them. Am I as bad as men who don’t notice their wives’ hairdos or what?
I like being in Hong Kong all the same. When I have been away for too many moons – distracted by Taiwan, Turkey and other destinations – I always gravitate towards it.
Hong Kong and I, we are quieter. I go to Hong Kong as, I imagine, a man goes home to his wife. There is more than a touch of inevitability; it has been years since anyone said anything about love; she is too tired to even look at him today. She is old and ordinary – and he sees it – and yet she is somehow lovely.
So it is with Hong Kong and me. As a very Cantonese girl going there for the very first time in the 1990s I was a little like a visitor at a club realising I had membership after all. (I had done my homework. When classmates busied themselves with foreign languages I filled my timetable with Cantonese, from the TVB shows on TV3 to the Leslie Cheung concert on LD.) I have gone there a zillion times since. Only on the trip before last, however, did I see for the first time in years how gorgeous Hong Kong was. A city of peaks and harbours, thrills and spills, alive with buildings and billboards and bamboo scaffolding coming at you at all angles such that when you and your tram go around them intact it feels as spectacular as a Jackie Chan stunt and as exquisite as a taiji exercise; a city of accidental Daoist aesthetics. On the last trip I was floored by how posh Hong Kong was. To go to ifc mall is to grasp once and for all that we don’t know how to do posh; they do. On this trip I saw Hong Kong’s trees. I was with S, who was visiting for the first time, and whenever she stopped to photograph trees I saw them too, pushing their way out of walls along sloping, winding streets. I saw the banyans on Nathan Road. I had never noticed them. Am I as bad as men who don’t notice their wives’ hairdos or what?
I like being in Hong Kong all the same. When I have been away for too many moons – distracted by Taiwan, Turkey and other destinations – I always gravitate towards it.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
The sister hen diaries
Out of the blue Fei calls, “Eh be my MC leh.” I was brought up to believe in magic, particularly in my mother’s magic: When you truly want to do something impossible for somebody you love you can – you just can. So if Fei wants me to be his MC, the magical doctor’s document that frees him from work, I have to be it somehow – how? “Your MC?”
“My MC, my wedding MC.” Right, sitting in an eatery with my mother, whose days and nights have for a year revolved round trying on dresses, jewels, heels and hairdos for that day and that night, I should have known. “’Kay, let’s talk when we get home,” I say and in the same breath I update my mother, “Your son wants Bak and me to be the MCs.” “Bak and you? Well, why not Bak and A?” Well, why not me? I can. I am the master of making all the right noises, I have the dress for it…two dresses, actually…and I could sing…I shouldn’t, actually, but…
As it transpires, Fei is telepathic. Over breakfast the next morning he is updating me on how he phoned Bak’s girl, A, and asked them to be the MCs and she unhesitatingly said yes. Which was when he asked her to call Bak in Atlanta and tell him it had been decided he would be her co-MC. Which she did. Which was when Bak – he who is careful with his money and never ever calls home except on Skype – picked up the phone and called Fei in a fluster, “Cannot lah cannot lah – I’m getting on a Panama cruise ship now, getting on – cannot lah cannot lah –”
But we know, and Bak knows, he isn’t getting out of it. He who says no to his kin does not say no to his girl, as Feicius says. A cunning man my brother is.
My parents are all for it certainly. My father, a fan of A’s polite Mandarin and perfect Taiwan manners, says she would be a good MC; my mother says she is a better choice; and I can’t say I am not disappointed, although I do admire the beauty of Fei’s strategy. I would have been okay, if less world-class than A. Isn’t it better to keep it in the family? “You are the older sister,” they say. Yes I am and isn’t Bak the younger brother? “The older sister shouldn’t be on stage.”
Right, the old spinster shouldn’t be on show. She should be protected. I hear them. I have an ear for the things they don’t say. Do they hear the things I don’t say though? A isn’t family yet. She might not be. Who is protecting her from memories she might not want one day…?
Well, we will just have to hope for the best. That, and roast pig that rocks our socks off.
“My MC, my wedding MC.” Right, sitting in an eatery with my mother, whose days and nights have for a year revolved round trying on dresses, jewels, heels and hairdos for that day and that night, I should have known. “’Kay, let’s talk when we get home,” I say and in the same breath I update my mother, “Your son wants Bak and me to be the MCs.” “Bak and you? Well, why not Bak and A?” Well, why not me? I can. I am the master of making all the right noises, I have the dress for it…two dresses, actually…and I could sing…I shouldn’t, actually, but…
As it transpires, Fei is telepathic. Over breakfast the next morning he is updating me on how he phoned Bak’s girl, A, and asked them to be the MCs and she unhesitatingly said yes. Which was when he asked her to call Bak in Atlanta and tell him it had been decided he would be her co-MC. Which she did. Which was when Bak – he who is careful with his money and never ever calls home except on Skype – picked up the phone and called Fei in a fluster, “Cannot lah cannot lah – I’m getting on a Panama cruise ship now, getting on – cannot lah cannot lah –”
But we know, and Bak knows, he isn’t getting out of it. He who says no to his kin does not say no to his girl, as Feicius says. A cunning man my brother is.
My parents are all for it certainly. My father, a fan of A’s polite Mandarin and perfect Taiwan manners, says she would be a good MC; my mother says she is a better choice; and I can’t say I am not disappointed, although I do admire the beauty of Fei’s strategy. I would have been okay, if less world-class than A. Isn’t it better to keep it in the family? “You are the older sister,” they say. Yes I am and isn’t Bak the younger brother? “The older sister shouldn’t be on stage.”
Right, the old spinster shouldn’t be on show. She should be protected. I hear them. I have an ear for the things they don’t say. Do they hear the things I don’t say though? A isn’t family yet. She might not be. Who is protecting her from memories she might not want one day…?
Well, we will just have to hope for the best. That, and roast pig that rocks our socks off.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Love is all in the footnotes
“Did I ever tell you…? Did we ever tell you…?” K asked one night when we were all in 2am, the dessert bar I describe to people as my boyfriend. They are talented and young; their sweets are subtle and thoughtful, though none has been as orgasmic as anything by Pierre Herme, the George Clooney of pastry masters; they remember my favourite foods, or rather, the things I have capriciously professed a preference for. If I love them they love me back.
“No,” I said, “tell me.” Nestling against a couch, I hadn’t been taking much note of K and C’s talk about old Melbourne times. Down under is a closed chapter of my life, after all.
“That day when we were in Crown Casino…we stalked you.” “You what? Crown Casino?” “We stalked you.” They were to have chaperoned me on my first offline date that day, ten years ago, with some man I had met online. A tallish, thin man with haunted eyes and a hunted, jumpy walk. And somehow or other, soon after everyone was introduced to everyone else, in the instant of a heartbeat, I pretty much made off with him – what was I thinking? I wasn’t – and gave K a heart attack.
OMG! She let her idiot friend leave with a man who looks like a South Asian terrorist! What if something happens? Should she call the idiot’s mum? What if nothing happens and she shouldn’t have called the idiot’s mum? So they had to stalk me. They went all the way to the man’s house – what was I thinking? I wasn’t – and stood outside, trying not to look like stalkers.
“You were outside?” “We were. We were saying there were no bushes to hide behind…” “There were bushes!” “Nearer the window. Not outside…” C said as she showed me some stoop-and-hide moves and re-enacted how he nearly saw her at the window. “I was like, shit.” K remembered how she gave C a hard time about wearing a yellow parka. “Yellow! When we were on a mission! I gave you such shite about that…”
And I realised, 10 years later, not too late, what great girl friends I have. They love you back; they love you more than you know.
“No,” I said, “tell me.” Nestling against a couch, I hadn’t been taking much note of K and C’s talk about old Melbourne times. Down under is a closed chapter of my life, after all.
“That day when we were in Crown Casino…we stalked you.” “You what? Crown Casino?” “We stalked you.” They were to have chaperoned me on my first offline date that day, ten years ago, with some man I had met online. A tallish, thin man with haunted eyes and a hunted, jumpy walk. And somehow or other, soon after everyone was introduced to everyone else, in the instant of a heartbeat, I pretty much made off with him – what was I thinking? I wasn’t – and gave K a heart attack.
OMG! She let her idiot friend leave with a man who looks like a South Asian terrorist! What if something happens? Should she call the idiot’s mum? What if nothing happens and she shouldn’t have called the idiot’s mum? So they had to stalk me. They went all the way to the man’s house – what was I thinking? I wasn’t – and stood outside, trying not to look like stalkers.
“You were outside?” “We were. We were saying there were no bushes to hide behind…” “There were bushes!” “Nearer the window. Not outside…” C said as she showed me some stoop-and-hide moves and re-enacted how he nearly saw her at the window. “I was like, shit.” K remembered how she gave C a hard time about wearing a yellow parka. “Yellow! When we were on a mission! I gave you such shite about that…”
And I realised, 10 years later, not too late, what great girl friends I have. They love you back; they love you more than you know.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The sister hen diaries
It has been quiet in the house after the youngest and noisiest one flew the coop to America, where they don’t know what hit them. Bak is not just out-studying them – 21 study credits to their average of 12 – but also stupendously out-singing them, in Chinatown, Atlanta, at least.
“The Chinese here are awful singers, awful lor,” he updates us over Gmail video chat. In the midst of William Hungs he is Aretha Franklin: minus the bodacious range, plus puppyish eagerness, dogged attempts at high notes and the superpower to mean every of the earnest Wang Lee Hom love songs he sings. “Everybody says, ‘Do you take private lessons?’”
We are taking all the credit of course. Clearly he has improved since he started singing with me – I really should patent my matchless stand-up-and-sing-in-the-KTV method, which is genius in its very obviousness – and also in the hearing of the Cowells, Fei and Y. “Wah, American Idol ah? We taught him. We insulted him.”
We are about tough love, much as we miss him. We miss him primarily during major dinners. On Chinese New Year’s Eve we wake him up at 6am his time to show him, over video, the food we have to somehow finish without him. “See, Bak? Roast pig.” (Roast pig, not to be confused with roast pork, is a festive must in the family. It is rare in Singapore and can be bought only from cleaver-wielding fierce Cantonese old women in Kreta Ayer market.)
Hugging his pillow, he just grunts. We are fooling about; he is playing along, time zones away.
“The Chinese here are awful singers, awful lor,” he updates us over Gmail video chat. In the midst of William Hungs he is Aretha Franklin: minus the bodacious range, plus puppyish eagerness, dogged attempts at high notes and the superpower to mean every of the earnest Wang Lee Hom love songs he sings. “Everybody says, ‘Do you take private lessons?’”
We are taking all the credit of course. Clearly he has improved since he started singing with me – I really should patent my matchless stand-up-and-sing-in-the-KTV method, which is genius in its very obviousness – and also in the hearing of the Cowells, Fei and Y. “Wah, American Idol ah? We taught him. We insulted him.”
We are about tough love, much as we miss him. We miss him primarily during major dinners. On Chinese New Year’s Eve we wake him up at 6am his time to show him, over video, the food we have to somehow finish without him. “See, Bak? Roast pig.” (Roast pig, not to be confused with roast pork, is a festive must in the family. It is rare in Singapore and can be bought only from cleaver-wielding fierce Cantonese old women in Kreta Ayer market.)
Hugging his pillow, he just grunts. We are fooling about; he is playing along, time zones away.
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