Indira’s face lit up when she spoke about her little brother. He was the light of her life, the only person that loved her, and she loved him, she said.
I pondered a while. It seemed some of my mother’s feminism was needed here. I said, as if my mother spoke through my mouth, ‘I don’t think you want to be alone, really. I think what you want is to be independent. Have your own house, your own money, look after yourself. And then nobody can beat you, or lock you up.’
The clouds blew away from her eyes. ‘That’s it. But how do I do it?’
‘I think you should start by stopping sending all of your salary to your family. They treated you badly, so why do you help them?’
Indira looked doubtful. ‘I’m from India. It’s what we do. Your parents are not like that, you won’t understand. You’re a little girl, anyway. What do you know?’
That hurt, and I got up to leave. ‘I still think you should save a little. I’ll buy you a piggy bank.’
She smiled wryly. ‘Ok.’
35
Speaking with Maricel, Mary Grace and Indira had made me realise that the migrant women’s problems were bigger than Singapore. Their real, long term worries were further away. Singapore was just a stepping-stone for them, part of a long journey. And if it was a risky step, they took it anyway.
People like Dad had taken a step too. He had come to Singapore on his own, when he was just out of university. Yet now, years later, he’d made a life here. He’d met Mama, found a good job, bought a house, had kids.
I realised there was a big difference between Dad, Ah Feng and the migrant domestic workers. That last group were never really here, never allowed to settle, marry, have their own home. They lived in a corner of someone else’s house, sometimes for decades on end, and as soon as their employer decided they should be repatriated, they had no say in when they would be put on a plane. Ah Feng and Dad had been allowed to become Singaporeans. Ah Feng’s life was hers, and if she hadn’t married it was because she hadn’t wanted to, not because there were laws against it.
Relief flooded into me knowing that girls like me, whether from Singapore or England, would never have to become migrant domestic workers. But pinches of guilt told me that Nurul, who I’d never even met, had no such comfort.
But what about Mama? She was born here, but things didn’t look easy for her.
That career ladder she always talked about, the one that ended at the glass ceiling, was a version of the stepping stones of the domestic workers. Mama was also on a journey. Hers was perhaps more comfortable, less lonely, and up a ladder rather than across dangerous water – but her stress showed clearly that it was nevertheless a tough one. Were things really harder for women? At school, I’d never noticed it, at least not in my Singapore. Feminism must be for grownups.
Thinking it through a bit more, I had another idea: maybe feminism was about standing up for yourself and your choices. It was something I needed very badly. But how could I do it? There was so much I didn’t yet understand.
The last time I’d had a real conversation with Mama was when we spoke about Ah Feng. She’d seemed so happy, proud to talk with me like I was an adult. But since then the gap between us had widened, and I was afraid to say anything to her, worried I’d scare her back into the Mamamonster. I needed a way to get Mama back, the real Mama.
Indira’s real life fairy tale had been haunting me for days. She had no children to provide for, just a cold-hearted stepmother who took her hard earned money. Her salary wouldn’t even pay for her own education. And then there was the not-too-old stranger she had to marry. Indira seemed to think it was pretty normal. Aunty M had commented that it was a cultural thing, and that was how things were done in India. Indira had a nice job now, she added, with a friendly Indian family that treated her well, and that was good enough for her. But I needed another perspective.
Mama would know about India, her Indian half beating my quarter, even if she had hardly known her father. I always felt more Chinese, because of PoPo, and western, not because of Dad but because Mama acted like that’s what we were. But looking in the mirror told me a different story.
‘Mama,’ I asked on a tranquil Saturday morning.
‘Yes?’ She seemed in a good mood.
‘Do you know about India?’
‘India? Why? What do you want to know?’
‘Is it normal that someone has to marry whoever their parents tell them to? And that twenty something is an old spinster?’
I’d been right, it caught Mama’s interest. She perked up, then settled down in her chair, back straight. ‘Interesting topic. Why are you asking?’
‘One of the aunties at the playground,’ I said, ‘Indira, she’s from India, and when she goes home she has to marry this guy. She says she’s lucky he’s only in his mid-thirties. Her friend had to marry one that was fifty. She says she’ll be an old spinster already when she goes back, but she’s the youngest of all the aunties.’
Mama nodded. ‘She’s probably from a village. Rural girls in India marry very young. They see girls as a cost, so they’d rather get rid of them as soon as they can. Then the husband has to pay for her food.’
‘But Indira isn’t a cost. She sends all her salary to her parents, and they’re not even nice to her. Her stepmother beats her.’
Mama said, ‘That would be why she’s not married yet. As long as she makes them money, they’ll milk her for what she’s worth.’
‘Milk her? She’s not a cow.’
Mama laughed. ‘It’s an expression. It means to take advantage of someone, to take something from them in little bits, slowly, like you express milk from the udder of a cow in slow squeezes. They won’t marry her off until the milk has run dry.’
I contemplated that. ‘Maybe it’s better for her to be here? If she can work, and doesn’t have to get married?’
‘Yes, possibly. But if she keeps sending all her money home, she’ll never gain her independence.’
‘That’s what I said!’ I exclaimed.
‘Because you’re a smart girl. My girl.’
She patted my hair and sunshine filled my head.
Mama continued, ‘But it would be hard for her to break free from tradition. Family bonds can be tight, and she still needs them if she goes back.’
‘She says she wants to be a lawyer. She’s very smart.’ I left out the bit about the shelter, and helping people. ‘Do you think she can study here?’
‘I think law school might be far-fetched for a girl from her background. India is very much a class society. It’s hard to move up when you’re born low. Even here in Singapore things are harder when you’re not Chinese, but hard work and perseverance count for a lot. We have meritocracy. That means people are judged on merit, not where they come from.’
She had a pensive look on her face. I wondered whether Mama found things more difficult at work because she was half Indian, and that she was thinking about that. But before I had the chance to ask, she said something completely unexpected.
‘You know what, there are some Sunday schools offering classes for maids. Maybe that would be a good idea for her. I can look it up and print some stuff out for her.’
My heart started beating fast. Mama was still there, underneath the monster.
But then she added: ‘Yes, I’ll do that, and you can pass it to her. But…’
She was silent for a while. ‘You think I don’t pay attention, but I do, you know. I noticed how you hang out a lot with the aunties. I don’t want you to do that so much. It’s better for you to play with kids your own age. You’re becoming a queer child.’
So she thought I was the crazy one?
‘What’s going on with Jenny?’ Mama continued. ‘We hardly ever see her anymore.’
I felt the little cockroach feet wriggle in my stomach. I hadn’t felt them in a while, not since Cat was in my life. I swallowed deep and mumbled that I didn’t like her anymore. She was no longer my friend.
The half-lie made the
cockroach do a little dance. Would Mama guess that Jenny was the one doing the not-liking? But then the cockroach froze. It wasn’t a lie. Cat was right. I didn’t need Jenny. She was mean, and I really didn’t like her anymore.
Clearer, I said: ‘I have a new friend.’
Mama didn’t pursue it. ‘Yes, Cat. She’s a bit queer too, but a nice girl, I suppose. Why don’t you bring her over tomorrow? You’re always at their place.’
I nodded, and pushed away the comments Mama had made about not hanging around with the aunties. I had another question on my mind. I needed to milk the nice Mama as long as I could, before the Mamamonster came back.
‘Mama?’
‘Yes?’
‘Does it happen in Singapore too?’
‘Does what happen?’
‘Girls having arranged marriages? And marrying young? There are many Indian people here too.’
Some of which were our own family.
‘Luckily, there are no child marriages here. Educated Indians and Singaporeans don’t do that anymore. But I had a friend in school, Jasmeen, and she married a guy her parents picked for her. She wasn’t forced, but she said her parents knew best, and how would she know who was right for her when she met a guy in a bar? She has three kids now and seems happy. She is a stay at home mum. I don’t know. It’s not for me. I believe women should make their own choices.’
‘PoPo didn’t pick Dad, did she?’ I snickered.
Mama laughed too. ‘I’m visualising PoPo liaising with Opa and Grandma in England. No. Don’t think so. He wouldn’t be whom she would have picked. Parents usually pick a partner for their child who’s from their own community, similar to them.’
Would Mama and Dad find it easier if they’d been more alike? Or at least from the same country? Their fight still resonated in my ears sometimes. They must have made up later, because the last few days Dad had been home more than usually and they were uncharacteristically cuddly. Was that why Mama could control the Mamamonster? Still, I wondered if things would be easier if they were more alike.
Mama seemed so comfortable that the words slipped out of my mouth just like that: ‘Who would PoPo have picked?’
‘Who knows? She was hardly conventional choosing appa herself.’
We looked at each other. ‘I miss PoPo,’ we said at the same time. Mama didn’t cry, but she closed her arms around me.
And I had missed Mama, I thought, hugging her tight, and hoping she would stay like this for a while. The feminism talk had worked, but I had also realised I had to be careful with my work for the aunties. Mama could not find out.
I felt so good after my conversation with Mama that when I saw Aunty M I ran to her and hugged her tight too. Somehow the good feeling made me want to cry. Aunty M hugged me back, and stroked my hair. ‘What is the matter, sayang?’
I said something about Mama being nice.
‘But why would you feel bad about that?’
‘I don’t, I just.’ I stuttered. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I was about Nurul. Have you spoken to her?’
‘No, she is still not talking to me. But I spoke to her dad. She is fine, she goes to school. She went to see her brother at my mother’s house.’
I needed to say something, but what could I say? I wanted to ask Aunty M how she felt, but her eyes showed that perfectly.
We didn’t speak for a while. I suppose she must have thought about Nurul, but I thought about Mama.
‘Aunty M?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think Mama would be nicer if she didn’t work? I mean nicer all the time? Like she was before.’
I realised Aunty M never knew Mama before. ‘I mean, you know. Mama was not always like this. She used to scream less. Dad says she is still not over missing PoPo, because when she was young PoPo was all she had. And that her work gives her so much stress she can’t grieve properly.’
I wasn’t completely sure what stress was, but I assumed it was pretty similar to cockroach feet dancing in your stomach whenever you saw your former best friend who was now mean. Not something I was hoping a grownup would feel. If her boss made Mama feel like that, and Dad said she could easily quit, why shouldn’t she? I hoped that grownups had more control over their lives.
Aunty M nodded. ‘Yes, your Mama has some stress. She works too hard. But I think if she did not work, she would be even less happy. It is who she is. Some women like to sit by the pool and sip wine, but not your Mama. What would I do if I had a rich husband?’ She giggled. ‘I’d stop work forever. I have worked enough. But your mother, her job is not cleaning the house. She has an important job. She wants to work.’
After a short break she added: ‘She will get better. Just wait.’
I sighed. Aunty M was the same as all adults. Stupid. That was the advice we gave people when we didn’t know what to say. Did she think I’d fall for that?
‘People have to work hard to support their children,’ Aunty M said.
‘Like you. You had to leave Nurul and Adi to make money for their future.’ I had learned a lot the last few months about desperation.
Aunty M nodded sadly. ‘I wish Nurul would understand too.’
36
I asked Cat to come by the next day, as Mama had suggested. We spent some time playing cards, but since Mama wasn’t home there was no point in staying in. We decided to catch up with Nee Nee. Aunty M stayed at home with Chloe, and no one opened the door at Win’s place, so we went over to Maricel’s on our own. She was home, and opened the door covered in flour. ‘I’m baking a pie,’ she said, pointing with her elbow. ‘Go through. She’s at the back, I just saw her.’
Cat climbed onto the table that was now permanently underneath the wall. What did Maricel’s employers think about that, I wondered. Did they know what was happening next door? Did they question it?
It looked as if Cat had managed to pick up quite a few words of Burmese. I was jealous. It was better than my Mandarin. Better than Cat’s Mandarin too.
‘We need to come more often,’ Cat said, hanging over the wall from Maricel’s place, her face turned back to me. ‘She’s still too hungry. She ate the dog food yesterday.’
‘The dog food? Are you sure you understood right?’
Maricel came up to the kitchen door.
‘It’s my fault. I was away for a few days with my employer. So we could not feed her.’
‘Did she really eat the dog food?’
Maricel raised her shoulders slightly, her white pasty hands in the air. ‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t be the first maid to do that.’
Cat passed a parcel of food to Nee Nee and exchanged a few more words.
‘She says it tasted quite nice.’
I wasn’t sure Cat wasn’t making this up. Maricel said that it was true, it tasted fine. She had eaten cat food herself.
‘It was the fancy kind. Very expensive. The employer I had only gave me a little meat, so I stole a spoon each time I fed the cat. It was chicken. In jelly. Very nice.’
We both stared at Maricel in disbelief.
‘You know, once we sat in the agency, waiting for a job, maybe ten of us. We spoke about food that day.’
We waited for Maricel to continue, as we knew she would. She licked the dough off her fingers first, then rubbed her hands together.
‘One woman had lost fifteen kilos at her last job. It hurt when she sat down, no fat on her bum, all bones. So we started to share experiences. We did a count. Out of ten, only two had always had enough food in all their jobs.’
‘Wow,’ Cat remarked. ‘Why do people do that? It’s like not putting petrol in your car. It won’t go.’
Maricel gesticulated, what can you do? She went on. ‘Some people give the maid one slice of bread for breakfast. My former employer did that. If I took more, she would scold me.’
‘How did she know how much you took?’ I asked.
‘She would count the slices in the pack. One friend, they gave her leftovers, but only after two or three days, if
no one else wanted them. If she took anything from the fridge herself, it was stealing. She did it once, when she was very hungry. She felt so guilty. She is a very strict catholic, so she had to go to confession. Several others took food from the bin. But that was not allowed either.’
I wondered whether any of them had ever eaten chichak. Or cockroach, even. But I was afraid to ask, lest the one in my stomach woke up.
When we got home, we interrogated Aunty M about her former employers. Had she always had enough to eat?
‘No, I was never hungry. My second ma’am, I stayed with her many years. The English teacher. The family was very good to me, treated me like part of the family. I ate separately, but good food, meat too. I did not have a day off, but on Sunday they would take me out, to the park, or dinner. After a year, I got so fat. I knew I was lucky with a good employer, but every night I would cry myself to sleep for missing my kids.’
They weren’t there to see, but I felt the tears on her face. Who did she think about when she tucked me in? Me or them?
I pushed the thoughts down. ‘Did you speak to them often? Or were they too little then?’
Aunty M replied, ‘I did not have a phone, so I could only call once a month on my employer’s phone. My family did not have a phone either, so they had to go visit a relative in the next village and wait until I called. Sometimes, I was not allowed to use the phone on the agreed time. My employer would need me, and said I could only call the next day. But my family would have spent that day waiting near the phone. They could not go back the next day. We’d have to wait another month.’
Cat looked at Aunty M blankly. ‘Why did you not just tell her you needed to use the phone at that specific time? You said she was nice.’
Aunty M shook her head. ‘I was not like now, I was very shy. Just new in Singapore. I was afraid to talk back.’
I thought about the special smiles Aunty M reserved for Mama, and asked myself, would she talk back now? To me, yes, but to Mama?
Aunty M must have read my thoughts, as she smiled a different smile. ‘You need not worry about me. I have everything I need here. Your mother is a good employer.’
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