by Phoen, Sam;
The bumboat splutters and coughs as it approaches the terminal, churning the water white with its outboard motor. The boatman lines it up against the other boats that are moored there. Again they have to traverse other boats before climbing up to the pier. Eric wonders how someone in a wheelchair would make this journey. The concrete supports of the pier are studded with barnacles, details which Rajah cannot see, so Eric paints a picture with words for him.
“You know, for someone to be a good writer, he needs to be observant of life around him,” Rajah says. “And you, my friend, are a good observer.”
At the gateway to the island, Eric says to Rajah, “Stand just here, under the sign which says, Welcome to Pulau Ubin. I’ll take a picture.”
“Do I look as if I’m smiling?” asks Rajah.
This simple question tugs at Eric’s heart. How does a person go through life not knowing how they look or present themselves? A normal person imparts the image he wishes to portray. But how can someone project any kind of image when he is unable to see himself? Eric feels Rajah’s loss keenly.
He is determined to make life better for him. At his school fair, Eric has collected well over a thousand dollars towards a guide dog. He sold his favourite books and CDS, DVDs, designer T-shirts, jeans and shoes. He displayed a framed A4 photo of Rajah in his dark glasses and a little blurb about the function of a guide dog, and people had donated generously. He has even started an online blog about Rajah and continues to make regular postings to fan interest. Donations are still coming in and he has nearly five thousand dollars now set aside in a special bank account for Rajah with Mr Devan as signatory.
“You’ve got a great smile!” Eric assures him.
“Would you like me to take a picture of you two together?” one of the tourists offers thoughtfully.
“Yes, please,” they say in unison.
The two boys pose, arms around each other’s shoulders. It’s the first photo Eric has of Rajah and him. He does not know at that time that it will be the only photo he would have.
“Do we look good?”
“You look like a film star,” says Eric. “I look like your feeble sidekick!”
“See! See!” Rajah says. “Your humour has definitely improved!”
As they walk through the village in Pulau Ubin, Eric describes the place to Rajah: the rows of bicycles for rent, the old-fashioned houses with corrugated zinc roofs, coffee shops and seafood restaurants that look straight out of 1950s Singapore. In the middle of the village, there is a wooden pavilion and stage, probably for opera performances during the Hungry Ghost Festival. The smell of incense greets them as they pass the small Taoist temple.
“Let me feel the granite this island is named after,” Rajah says.
Eric guides him to a huge boulder and helps Rajah sit on it.
“I can feel the energy of the stone,” Rajah says, beaming.
Once again, Eric marvels at Rajah’s capacity for joy and living.
“Trees, lots of trees,” Eric enthuses as they walk deeper into the village. “Especially fruit trees. Here is nangka, or jackfruit, mango, papaya, rambutan and there’s even a durian tree.”
“Can I touch the fruits?’
“The fruits are out of reach, I’m afraid. The trees are very tall. All the mangoes and jackfruits are wrapped up in newspaper to prevent the birds from getting at them.”
Eric stops to ask directions from a shopkeeper – bare-chested, his ribs visible under the thin skin. His store is packed with rice, daily provisions, packets of dried noodles, peanuts, crisps and sweets, flip-flops, mosquito repellents, aerated drinks and fresh green coconuts.
Everywhere in the village, people speak Hokkien, the main tongue in Singapore in the old days, besides Malay. In the 1980s, the Singapore government instituted Mandarin as the official language, effectively replacing the various dialects. Those living on offshore islands like Pulau Ubin were somewhat out of reach of the claws of government policy, and so persisted with speaking in their own mother tongues and practicing their own customs.
“Just past the lotus pond you will see a small path,” the shopkeeper directs them.
“What does the lotus look like?” Rajah asks after they had set off. “How is it different from the other flowers? Appa says that the lotus is used often in spiritual teachings. He said that it is a symbol of enlightenment, since it grows out of mud and moves through the water into light.”
“Well, here we are, by the lotus pond,” Eric says. “Now that you say it, I’m seeing the lotus with a different eye. The lotus flower has numerous petals and here it is pink, though they come in different colours. It does rise out of the water from a long stem, as you say, out of the muddy bed of the pond. What an appropriate symbol. I guess life is a bit muddy. And then the flower opens and bursts out of the water into sunlight. I guess besides enlightenment, we can see the sunlight as a symbol of hope and inspiration, eh? This is what human beings have to move towards, instead of getting caught up in our mud, obsessed only with material things.”
“Oh yes,” Rajah says. “Material things, like pleasures, are temporary. We need to strive for something greater and more permanent. That’s the true meaning of yoga, to find union with our higher self. Yoga comes from the word, yuj, to yoke or unite, in Sanskrit. Union means harmony. Tell me, are the leaves of the lotus in harmony with its flower?”
“Raj, my friend. You and your family have taught me so much about striving for something greater than material things. You’ve opened my eyes to a different way of life. I think I am the lotus stem though, moving away from the mud but still trapped in the water. But I can see the light overhead shining into the pond.”
“Eric, you are special! The world will be diminished without you.”
Rajah’s words echoes in Eric’s mind. The world will be diminished without you.
“Oh, sorry, yes, the leaves are in harmony with the flower. They are rounded, dark green and lie flat, peacefully, on the surface of the water, as if they have nothing to do all day.”
“Are the flowers pretty?” Rajah asks.
“Yes. I wish you can see them,” Eric says. “They look as if some angel has playfully scattered the bright flowers across the pond, clusters of colour against the dull grey of the pond.”
“Eric?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me that you will use your gift of language and become a writer. I shall be so happy to know you are brightening people’s lives, as you’ve brightened mine, with your words.”
Eric squeezes his hand.
The path to Eric’s grandmother’s house is away from the main road and packed with mud. Eric has to guide Rajah past tall lallang and various bushes. Little field mice skitter here and there, the first time Eric has ever seen wild life in Singapore, besides birds and the monkeys at Lower Pierce Reservoir. Then suddenly, a herd of wild boar comes out in the open.
“Stop! Keep still,” Eric says to Rajah. “Two adult wild boars and three of their offspring are crossing the path. As long as they don’t see us as any threat, we’re okay.”
“Wow! This is like a safari!”
When it is safe again, they continue on the path. Above the tall, sharp-edged grass, Eric sees a corrugated zinc roof, then, as they walk closer, wooden walls, windows and a front porch. Eric stops abruptly and Rajah runs into him.
“What’s up?” Rajah asks.
“I can see the house. There’s someone sitting on the porch.”
“Well, my friend, this is the moment you’ve been waiting for. Now don’t be nervous. Everything will be all right.”
But suddenly Eric is not so sure. Should he have written to his grandmother first to prepare her for the shock of seeing her teenage grandson? Or to give her a chance to say she didn’t want to see him?
“Describe the person.”
“Well, she is an old lady, sitting on a rattan chair, plucking the tails off beansprouts.”
“What’s she like? What’s she wearing?”
> “Very old and very brown,” Eric says. “Wearing a sarong kebaya, though she doesn’t look Malay.”
“Fits the description right.”
“I think so too.”
“Well, go and say hello. Maybe I should wait here.”
“No, you come with me.”
Eric pulls Rajah along. As they approach the house, the old woman looks up. Her cheeks are wrinkled, marks of being kissed over the years by the strong tropical sun. But her smile is brilliant.
“Hello. Apa khabar? How are you?” Eric says uncertainly. “Is this the home of Mrs Isabelle Lim Wainwright?”
“Yes. And who are you?”
“Grandma! It’s me! Eric!” Eric goes forward in a rush of spontaneity to hug the old lady.
“Eric? Wah Eric!” the old lady says with joy, flinging her arms around him. “You’ve come at last!”
“Is everything all right?” Rajah asks.
“Yes, everything’s all right,” Eric says. “I’ve found my grandmother!”
“Grandmother?” The old lady raises her eyebrows quizzically. “I’m not your grandmother. I’m Auntie Neo, your grandmother’s old friend.”
“Then how do you know me?”
“Your grandmother talks about you often, and I understand her pain. Every time she returns from the mainland, trying to catch a glimpse of you, she is filled with so much sorrow. So I feel as if I know you already. Isabelle took me in when my husband died years ago, so I help her around the house when she tends to her business.”
“She came to look for me? So where’s…?”
“Yes, since she moved back here. You should find her there by the beach,” the old lady says. “With her students.”
“Students? What’s she teaching?”
“Windsurfing,” Auntie Neo says with a grin. “We’re the same age but you wouldn’t think it when you see her.”
“My grandmother?” Eric says, incredulous. “A seventy-something teaching windsurfing?”
“Wah!” Rajah exclaims. “I wish I can see this!”
“Don’t forget to come back for some bubur kachang afterwards. Isabelle always puts it to simmer before she goes out in case her students need warming up after falling into the sea so often!” Auntie Neo laughs, showing her sireh-stained teeth.
“Oh, I’m sure I will. The smell is already making me hungry,” Rajah says to Auntie Neo before leaving. Turning to Eric, he says, “Now what was it I was saying about the Singaporean way of saying ‘I love you’?”
Eleven
She isn’t wearing a sarong kebaya as he had envisaged all these months. She is in a swimsuit, not a thin woman but not fat either. It’s an athletic body, bare arms and legs, muscled and deeply tanned. Eric stands a distance away watching the woman standing on the surfboard at the water’s edge, demonstrating to her four young students how to hold onto the sail and how to raise it from the water after it has plunged down.
Is that really his grandmother? What he sees does not match his idea of how grandmothers should look. Aren’t old people supposed to be decrepit and half losing their minds? In the media, old people are frequently portrayed as water buffaloes too old to work, their age and feebleness sucking dry the nation’s coffers. Eric hasn’t realised that he might be bigoted like most people until this very moment.
“Go on,” Rajah says excitedly. “Tell me, what does she look like?”
“Well,” Eric says. “I can’t believe that the woman there standing on a windsurfing board is actually my grandmother! She has rich brown skin and an athletic build. Her grey, shoulder-length hair is tied back. She looks fit and healthy. Her students are strapped in bright orange life jackets, like your shirts!” Eric laughs.
“Oh, pity I can’t see your grandmother. Orange life jackets must be a good idea. I thought my mother’s idea was original, for people to see me in my orange shirts. It makes sense for people who do sea sports to wear bright colours. They can be seen more clearly if they fall into the sea and are hidden by the waves.”
“Let’s sit here,” Eric suggests, helping Rajah onto the fallen trunk of a palm tree. The beach is small and seems private, and Eric starts to unpack the food they have brought. “Do you remember telling me something important when we first met?”
“I’ve told you so many things. Which one?” asks Rajah.
“You said, ‘It’s important to work at something that lifts your spirit rather than be in a job that imprisons your soul’. Now, looking at that woman who is my grandmother, your words make a lot of sense. Seeing her carry out her job with such enthusiasm and joy, it is so obvious that her spirit is lifted. Just watching her lifts mine.”
“I wish I can see it,” says Rajah wistfully. “It’s so rare to see someone enjoying what they do. You are one lucky grandson!”
His grandmother seems nothing like the unforgiving picture Clara has painted of her. Other people’s prejudices can weigh you down and shape your ideas. At least now Eric can make his own judgement. Isabelle Lim Wainwright’s voice floats up to them, a voice not yet diminished by age. There’s laughter in her voice, her manner of teaching firm yet gentle and with compassion. Suddenly he has a feeling of déjà vu and recalls something.
“You know, Raj,” he says. “There’s a vague familiarity about her. I think I’ve seen her before.”
“How come?” Rajah asks, between mouthfuls of chapatti.
“Now that I think of it, I’ve often seen a woman lurking about at school or outside our condo as if she’s trying to catch somebody’s eye. She was never in a sarong kebaya, just ordinary jeans or shorts. I’ve never given her serious thought till now. So Auntie Neo is right, my grandmother has been trying to see me. I just haven’t been paying attention.”
The team of windsurfers launch their boards and struggle to keep their balance. Isabelle brings up her sail efficiently, taking hold of it with decisiveness. Her students are less capable, dragging their sails in the water, making them too laden with water to bring back up with ease. A couple of the girls fall into the water in great splashes. Isabelle moves with agility amongst her students, ensuring their safety and shouting instructions above the wind, alive with energy.
Eric feels as if a key is turning within him. This is what he needs! Not his mother’s artificial makeovers and confinement to a bureaucratic life, nor his father’s passive indolence, but energy – brimming, overflowing zest for life. His grandmother is pulsating with it. Eric has not understood what he was looking for until this very moment. He doesn’t have to be a big tree in a small pot – he can be a big tree. Except that he needs to get out of the small pot. The thought brings him a rush of joy; he turns round to Rajah to hug him.
“What’s that for?”
“You’ve been right all along! I don’t have to be a big tree in a small pot!” Eric says with sheer happiness. “My grandmother is showing me that. She hasn’t allowed anyone to force her to remain in a small pot through their opinions or their censure. She simply lives life.”
“Wah Eric, my friend! You’re a philosopher as well!”
Eventually, the students move off to store their sails and boards, and shower. Isabelle walks towards Eric and Rajah with steady strides, her bare feet creating imprints in the soft, white sand. As she comes closer, Eric sees an open, cheerful face – lined by life’s tribulations but glowing with health. Her wet hair is slicked back behind her ears. No, she is not young, but she definitely has a youthful energy.
Isabelle stops in front of them, the only other people left on the beach. For a moment, she stands still, appraising them. Then she smiles broadly and opens her arms wide.
“Eric!” she says with immense joy. “You’re here at last!”
Thank goodness, she pronounces his name properly. At least to one grandmother, he won’t sound like a room fragrance, air freshener or a toilet bowl disinfectant. They hug, standing still, learning each other through touch. Isabelle brushes her hand all over his head, his arms around her waist. He is damp from her wet swimsuit
but he doesn’t care. This, this is what he has missed all his life.
“How did you recognise me, Grandma?” Eric asks later when they’re at Isabelle’s kampong house eating bubor kachang.
The house sits in a beautiful garden, built in the fashion of old village houses. The roof is no longer attap-thatched but made from zinc, though the floor is still cement, the walls wooden planks. There are modern facilities now, electric light and a flush toilet, unlike those houses that Eric has read about in history books. The smell of the coconut milk boiling is mouth-watering.
“This green mung bean soup is so warming after a day out at sea,” says Isabelle, who has changed out of her wet things into a T-shirt and shorts. “Do you like it, Rajah? I have to thank you for being such a good friend to my grandson and accompanying him here.”
“No need to thank me, Auntie. Eric has given me so much in the short time I’ve known him. He’s my best friend. Yes, the bubor is very delicious. I love the Peranakan style rather than the Chinese style. By the way, I love your accent.”
“Eric, sayang,” Isabelle uses the Peranakan endearment, which gives Eric a warm, cuddly feeling. “I’ve followed you ever since I came back to Singapore to live…”
“That’s what Auntie Neo said. See Raj, what did I tell you?” Eric turns to his grandmother, “I told Rajah I thought I’ve seen you before.”
“Yes, I’ve watched you from afar,” says Isabelle. “But I know your mother would not have approved. And your father… well. I just thought it best not to force you to make any decision and that when the time is right, you would come in search of me. That’s why I decided to live here, so it won’t be too far for you to ferret me out.