by You Jin
There were also three construction workers, all lively fellows. Each day, they would bring their sweat-covered bodies home to the showers and sing a Xinjiang folk song, loudly and out of tune: “The sun’s gone down, but it’ll climb back up tomorrow. Flowers wither now, but they’ll open again next year…” After eating, the trio would make their way to night school. When they finished class each night, the light in their room stayed on until very late, and we could hear the sound of three voices revising lessons. Occasionally, they would see my two sisters and me carrying our school bags in the morning and playfully call out, “Hey, little professors! Last night when we were in class we couldn’t do our lessons and the teacher made us stand in the corner. You study hard, then come and tutor us!”
My mother vigilantly guarded the boundaries of our rented room. When she met the neighbours, she nodded politely, keeping them at a distance. In order to avoid quarrels or conflicts with the neighbours who surrounded us on all sides, and to keep from being dragged into long, protracted conversations, she never set foot in the communal kitchen. She bought a small charcoal-burning stove and set it up next to the door of our unit to cook. Every day she squatted on the floor, waving a fan and blowing mightily on the reddened coals to stoke the fire, on which she cooked soft, fluffy rice and delicious dishes. At the time, my father often came home late because he was working so hard. My mother would fill a blue and white porcelain bowl with rice, packing it to the brim, pressing it down, and then putting a little more in before adding all the meat, eggs, and vegetables that she had given up for him. She would wait for my father’s footsteps, then carry the bowl in both hands, so meticulously arranged to imply abundance. Her expression made it seem like she possessed the whole world.
After finishing the housework, my mother would make the most of her time, reading books and newspapers. The light in our room was only turned off very late at night. The people in the communal residence all called my mother “the scholarly girl” behind her back. It was not at all meant as an insult, but was said in a tone of respect.
When the charcoal ran out, my mother herded her four children to the nearby shop to buy more. She bought 10kg at a time, wrapped in newspaper and tied with raffia string, then lifted it to her bosom. From afar, the package looked like a dark baby. She would tell my older sister to carry my little brother, Kok Fun. My other brother, Kok Peng, and I would follow in their footsteps. I looked at the huge pack of charcoal in my mother’s arms as I walked quickly behind her. That package always made me think of the fragrant rice and tasty dishes we ate, putting a big smile on my face.
In spite of almost crippling poverty, in her wisdom and love, my mother gave careful attention to providing a safe haven for us. As a result, in our spirits, there was always a sense of carefree contentment.
That year, bringing up her four children in the environment of the communal residence, my mother was still a young woman of thirty. Though she had been born to a wealthy family, she showed great endurance in the midst of difficulties that called to mind the line from the Lu You poem, “When the mountains crowd around and the streams double back, I doubt there is a road to take.” Always patient and even-tempered, she showed great tolerance, hoping to endure until the frost broke and spring arrived. Of course, on many occasions, such as when rent money was short or there was not enough rice, I would see her purse her lips as tears came and she cried silently. But once she had dried the tears, she would have a renewed purpose in life, her courage restored.
Looking back on those years, I am filled with deep gratitude.
In that period of poverty, we learned that, if you set your eyes on a distant goal and really put your heart into working toward it, things will improve and prospects will start to look brighter. Are mountains and streams really so formidable that no road is laid there? Never mind, then; just forge your own path.
A Treasure in a Cardboard Box
Not far from where we lived, there was a small bookstore that had a strange but memorable name, The Book. The shop counter was a feast for the eyes in blazing colours, covered with a huge spread of brand new books, smelling of fresh ink and crisp pages. Books have always held an irresistible attraction for me. But when I was eight, without a single cent, I did not dare set foot inside the store. I noticed that there were several cardboard boxes at the door, filled with old magazines and some novels that had accidentally gotten wet, smearing the ink on the pages. They were for sale at a discounted price.
The cast-off books made my eyes sparkle. Every day, I would make my way to the bookstore, squat beside the boxes, and flip through the books. At first, I looked at the back issues of Children’s World, in which there were more pictures than text. Later, when I lost interest in that, I started flipping through more text-based books from the box that, through a gradual process, I began to understand. Half-enlightened, I was filled with joy.
One day, I found a copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales, its cover ruined by water. The first story was “The Little Mermaid”. After reading just a few pages, I was completely sucked in.
I squatted beside the box, lost in reading about the Sea Dragon King’s daughter, a mermaid, who falls in love with a human man. I read and read, until finally a huge tear fell into the box, then two, three, four more. I lost count of my tears as they soaked the books in the box. This was the first time the written word had moved me to tears, exposing me to literature’s mind-blowing power to move a person in the deepest parts of her heart and mind.
“The Little Mermaid” opened up entirely new spaces for me, allowing me to see beyond the realities of the mundane world, to glimpse the potential to paint our world in many colours, to envision the limitless possibilities and fly above the everyday like a winged stallion into the world of imagination. After entering this world, the countless worries and troubles of the mundane world were washed away. My limbs danced with the joy of the written word. Its sorrows made tears stream down my face, and its beauty ignited a deep sense of longing inside me.
After reading “The Little Mermaid”, I was crazy about Andersen, reading one book after another. Before long, I had read “Thumbelina”, “The Princess and the Pea”, “The Wild Swan”, “The Nightingale”, “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, “Red Dancing Shoes”, and “The Ugly Duckling”, along with all the other Andersen stories I could find in the box.
Spending each day squatting beside that box, so absorbed in reading that I was practically drunk on it, I was completely unaware of the pair of eyes at rest on my back, watching me intently. One day, as I squatted near the box, I heard someone yell at me, “Girl!”
I looked up and saw that the person calling me was a familiar gaunt figure in white shirt and black pants. It was the shop owner. My heart leapt, fearing he would chase me away. Someone like me, who came daily to read but never spent a cent in the shop, would surely be considered a cultural beggar. I stood up, fidgeting uncomfortably. My palms were sweaty, and I did not dare look up at him, fearing the stream of harsh words that would shoot out of his mouth.
“Girl!”
He called me again, without any trace of impatience or irritation in his voice. Instead, he sounded like he was full of good humour. I gathered my courage, and found myself looking into a cheerful, smiling face. He handed me a couple of books with wrinkled covers and said, “These are for you.”
I did not dare believe my good fortune. My eyes blinked and my mouth stuttered, but the only thing that did not respond was my hands.
“Take them!” he insisted, forcing them into my hands. “Go on.”
When I accepted the books, I was like a block of wood, unable to speak. He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked off. It was then that I looked at the books I was holding. One was Arabian Nights, and the other was Aesop’s Fables. I was like a starving child suddenly seeing a huge pot of braised meat. Joy consumed my heart. Forgetting to thank him, I hugged the books to my chest and quickly scrambled home, where I holed up in a corner and began r
eading ravenously.
I first read Arabian Nights, that collection of fantastic tales, each one more wonderful than the last. I was awe-struck. From this, I finally understood the wealth of magic contained in the written word. That world created by text was boundless. To me, the written word was like that genie from Aladdin’s magical lamp: once I mastered the correct way to “control” him, I could command everything and receive anything I wished. Each story was more enticing than the one before, and filled with all sorts of human wisdom and moral instruction. I “chewed” on it, and gained some spiritual insight. It was an entry point to knowledge and wisdom, a completely different way of writing from that in the fairy tales. I read and read, and the joy in my heart was like dough being dropped into a pot of hot oil, growing bigger and bigger, intensifying my love for the written word.
As time wore on, I carried on as a regular of the bookstore, without spending a cent. The books from that cardboard box really fleshed out my experience of childhood. The gaunt bookseller not only refrained from imposing a tyrannical hand on his little visitor, but he also gave me a few old books and back issues of magazines. Throughout my life, any time I think back to that man, whose name I never even knew, my heart is flooded with an inexpressible gratitude. It was he who taught me that it is more blessed to give than to receive, and the joy of helping others. Most importantly, it was he and his kindness that led a poor, lonely child to brighter, more colourful days in her youth, letting her see the glittering wonders of the world of the written word, and finding in them an unending joy.
A Gem on the Sick Bed
When I was ten years old, I was hospitalised with an illness. One morning when I got up, I found that both sides of my torso ached unbearably. When I went to wash up, the face in the mirror gave me a fright. Swollen, it looked like the full moon reflected in water: huge, round and yellow. When I went to the toilet, I was frightened further when I saw blood in my urine. Filled with fear, I started to cry loudly.
My mother rushed me to the clinic, where I was diagnosed with an acute kidney infection and admitted to the hospital. In the huge C-class ward, the beds were separated into two rows, all filled with the groaning sick and infirm. My mother got me settled in, then hurried home to look after my siblings. I lay there alone, surrounded by the smell of medicine, feeling like a tiny twig afloat on a vast sea.
When evening finally arrived, my parents came to see me. My father carried a huge bag, not of fruit or biscuits, but of books. They were new, with a glossy ink smell, just waiting to be read. I was so eager that I couldn’t sit still as I took them and looked them over. The collection was called Chinese Idioms and Their Stories. There were ten volumes in all—ten whole volumes! At the time, our financial situation was not good, so we had to be careful with our money. Staples like rice, oil, vegetables, vinegar, soy sauce, and tea took priority. Buying these books for me was an unprecedented extravagance on my father’s part.
This set of books had a huge impact on my writing life in later years. Each idiom was made up of four Chinese characters, but each of these sets of four characters encapsulated a whole story, carrying with it a wealth of history and meaning. Each idiom was deeply rooted in classical literature, making it a linguistic and philosophical treasure house. In satire, these idioms had the power to prick the heart; in edification, to rouse the soul; in wisdom, to sharpen the mind; in wit, to tickle the funny bone; and in teaching, to instruct the spirit. In all that is beautiful and profitable, they provided something to challenge the intellect.
To take an example, the Chinese idiom to have bamboo in mind is similar to the English saying “to have a card up one’s sleeve”. Most people take it simply as an expression of the idea of having great confidence, but if they don’t realise that it comes from The History of the Song Dynasty: The Story of Wen Tong, not only do they miss out on a beautiful story, but also fail to benefit from the enlightenment it offers.
The story says that in the Northern Song’s Renzong period (1022–1063), there was a famous artist called Wen Tong. He excelled at poetry, calligraphy and painting, making his reputation from painting bamboo, which earned him the nickname “Bamboo Master”. Wen Tong was a serious student of painting, wasting no opportunity to improve. He filled every available corner of his residence with bamboo, studying it through the bliss of spring, the swelter of summer, the fading of autumn and the cold of winter. He watched the bamboo year-round, gaining a deep understanding of bamboo’s qualities throughout each season and watching its changes as the year progressed and its environment fluctuated. After a long period of observation, he could not only describe the particular attributes of bamboo, but he carried those attributes inside him. Because he had internalised bamboo, and integrated it into his own thinking, whenever he sat down to paint, he always knew exactly how to compose the piece, what ink to use, and everything else he needed to plan for the work. This was because he already had a good grasp of his subject, and so did not need to waste any effort considering how the bamboo might appear or behave in a certain situation. He was always well prepared to paint bamboo in any light.
It is also noteworthy that, in reflecting on the experiences of those who have gone before us, idioms offer new levels of enlightenment at various stages of life for different people. I read those stories endlessly, completely absorbed in them. I was completely enamoured, to the point that I practically forgot about my illness, the injections I endured, and everything else. From these stories, I came to know about ancient Chinese politics, literature, and philosophy, and familiarised myself with the important figures of Chinese history and literature, which greatly increased my interest in reading even more of it.
As soon as I opened my eyes every morning, I opened the book and read. Every night, I read until lights out, only putting the book away reluctantly. All the nurses loved to tease me every time they saw me, saying, “Hey, Little Professor, what’s the subject of your doctoral dissertation?” or “Hey, Little Professor, good thing they didn’t manage to burn all the books under Emperor Qin, or you wouldn’t have so much to read today!” Sometimes they said, “Hey, Little Professor, have you found your castle of gold in those books yet? Don’t forget to leave a room for us, okay?”
Idioms—so many idioms—with all those glorious stories would dance before my eyes day and night, like a huge cavalry marching into my heart.
Years later when I started writing, no matter what thing, person, feeling, or experience I wanted to describe, I could always find a suitable idiom effortlessly, as those idioms were already integrated into my thought. Having become a part of the makeup of my mind, they popped up anytime and anywhere, illuminating everything I wrote. I can still use them at will to create the desired effect.
Many years after that, when I started teaching, I learned very clearly that a great number of students are intimidated by the recitation of idioms. The biggest reason for this is that they only get the literal meaning, but have no concept of how to use them. They do not understand the stories behind the idioms, nor the deeper meanings attached to them. They think of idioms only in connection with exams, hoping that reciting them will earn a few extra points. They work themselves half to death learning to recite idioms, but once they’ve done that, they still don’t know what the phrases mean. Worst of all, as soon as the exam is over, they forget all about them. The result is that they stuff their minds full of idioms, only half understanding them, and are ultimately left with nothing. This sort of study habit will not have any lasting effect, and it tarnishes all the beauty of idioms.
I have always felt that idioms are the pinnacle of the Chinese language. Using them well in a piece of writing is like placing hidden treasures along the way. Used in the course of conversation, they add punch to what one has to say. Idioms contain all the wisdom of ancient China, and this wisdom cannot be gained in the blink of an eye. Idioms can be gentle and sincere, bitterly sarcastic, amusing, or even dignified and elegant, full of variety and richness. Every time they flow from my p
en, I am filled with pride to note that, in the world of idioms, I am a wealthy person, because in my mind I carry a virtual treasure house, a great wealth of idioms.
Jewels in the Sun
My mother had three big boxes that she had brought over on the train from Ipoh as we made our southward trek to Singapore. The thick, brown cardboard box was held firmly together by strong, sticky strips of tape, closely guarding the secrets of the heavy boxes.
After we moved into the communal residence in Fire City, these three boxes always occupied a corner of the room. I did not know what they contained, and my mother would not tell us.
One Sunday, the sun was especially fierce, making the ground sparkle as if it were covered with the shards of a diamond. My mother, in an especially good mood, squatted beside the three boxes. She called her three older children over and pointed to the top box, saying, “Come and help me move this box outside.”
The four of us each took a corner and half-pulled, half-pushed the huge cardboard box out into the bright sunlight of the common balcony. The scorching sunlight fell on my mother’s head. The beads of sweat it provoked were a thing of beauty.
With great care, my mother removed the tape on the box and pulled back the cardboard. It seemed to exhale, blowing off the layer of dust that had collected there. Eagerly, I poked my head into the box for a look. It was full of books. The whole huge box was nothing but books.
One by one we examined the titles of the classical works of Chinese literature. Dream of the Red Mansion, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, The Water Margin, Journey to the West, Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, Romance of the West Chamber… They were all there.