by You Jin
My mother spread white paper on the floor and slowly took each book out and placed it on the paper. Her expression was stern and her mood solemn as she carefully put each new treasure in its place. As she laid the books out, she told us, “These are a treasure, and insects love to eat them. Sunlight is the best deterrent for the insects. It will drive them away. We’ll lay them out for a while and let them get some sun.”
After many, many years, my mother’s tender words on that day still resonate in my ears. What left an even deeper impression on me was my mother’s beautiful expression as she handled the books with reverence.
“You need to help me keep careful watch over the books. Don’t run off,” my mother warned. “In half an hour, we’ll turn them over and let the sun shine on the reverse side.”
As she spoke, she went into the flat to take care of our youngest brother, who was lying in his cot. The three of us sat like misers, faithfully guarding our treasure.
It was on that day that I was first injected with a dose of classical Chinese literature. It spread through my veins like poison, making its way deep inside me, so deep that it would be difficult to eradicate it. Every book was full of text, but I did not mind pages with lots of words. I sat on the ground and started reading. As I read, I came across many new words that were not yet a part of my body of knowledge. As I read, I made guesses, often guessing correctly. The more I read, the easier it became, increasing my interest all the more.
When I started out as a self-taught reader, I came across many words that didn’t quite sink in for me. Naturally, I did not know how they should be pronounced, so as I read, I relied on guesses based on the parts of the characters that looked like other words I was already familiar with, first guessing from this method, then, when that wasn’t effective, relying on context. That’s how I guessed at the pronunciation. Sometimes when I read up to an especially thrilling part of the book, without following my prescribed system, if I came across some unfamiliar word, I would just apply some random pronunciation to it. These random sounds remained with me as I grew up, even following me into adulthood. It was difficult to change those misreadings in my later years, relearning the words and, when I read aloud, I am still prone to making many mistakes. These aren’t the typical mistakes most people might make, such as missing a tone or misreading a character as one that looks similar, or perhaps adopting a pronunciation similar to one’s dialect. Instead, I might read qian as something completely different, such as zhui. It happens because the first time I encountered that character, I had no idea how to read it, but when I saw that the character after it was ze, I thought, “Doesn’t that mean ‘to scold’?” From there, perhaps because I was being too clever for my own good, the term zhui stuck in my mind. These sorts of errors in pronunciation often appear in my mind. It was only when I was learning to use the computer and had to force myself to apply accurate Hanyu pinyin in order to enter the words that I finally rectified the situation.
The temple of ancient literature is vast, and my first glimpse inside it took my breath away. Those authors all put such soul into their work. Journey to the West ignites the imagination, launching the reader into a fantastic world. Dream of the Red Mansion offers such elaborate descriptions of its characters that they seem freakishly close. The characters in The Water Margin are so vivid, so lifelike, that they make the reader shout in admiration. Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio is so eerie it will make you scream in surprise. And Romance of the Three Kingdoms is so full of the light of wisdom that it will benefit the whole of a person’s life.
As my mother sunned her store of volumes of classical Chinese literature, airing her books in the bright sunlight, every page exuded its own special aroma. In the process, those ancient works filled my mind with a sense of wonder that has never faded.
CHAPTER 4
The Limits of a Young Girl’s Loneliness
A Quiet Little Fish
MOST PEOPLE NOWADAYS see me as quite chatty. Once, when I was at a gathering with my friends, they had a really good laugh over what I told them my primary school teacher had written in my report card years earlier, that I was “taciturn and timid”. My friends burst out laughing. They took my honest confession and turned it into a huge joke.
These friends had only met me when I was already in my thirties. They did not know what a huge difference there was between my childhood self and the person I have become today.
During my childhood, I was an extremely lonely, solitary individual. At school, I never opened my mouth, never uttered a sound, silent as a fish swimming at the bottom of the deepest sea.
The written word was my whole world, my heaven and earth. I used words to build myself a tall, mighty fortress, and I would gladly hide away in that fortress all day, finding great pleasure there. While other children my age were playing outdoors, or when my classmates were chatting about meaningless stuff, I would hide behind a thick volume of renowned ancient literature, reading to my heart’s content. My classmates, all thinking me quite an odd creature, kept their distance. I was not at all well-liked, but I never once took notice of that. I was quite content living in my own world.
I remember once my teacher wanted to do a group activity. There were thirty-one students in class, and the teacher told us to divide into six groups of five students. Everyone quickly searched out his or her own friends to form a group, then the six groups sat, chattering happily as they waited for the teacher’s instructions. There was only one person extra, with no place to go, and no classmates pulling her into their little circles. She stood there like a little stray puppy. That person was me. Under strict orders from the teacher, one group grudgingly pulled me into their midst. They all looked resentful, like someone who disliked oily food being forced to gobble down a piece of fatty pork. Seeing how utterly displeased they were, I wanted to tell the teacher, Let’s not do this. Let me do the activity by myself! But the teacher’s expression was blank, like a building with no windows. Of course I did not dare complain. This was the first time in my life I felt how distasteful loneliness was.
In the classroom, I was not a very attentive student. Every day, in each class, I hid my own books inside the textbook, reading furtively. Because I was so quiet, the teachers were all misled. They mistook me for a well-behaved, hardworking student, and harboured no suspicions about my study ethic. I read a great number of the world’s literary classics during class, when I should have been listening to my lessons.
Though my schoolwork was always a mess, my quiet demeanour kept my teachers from trying to understand the problem, so they all assumed I was just naturally not very clever. When they looked at me, they could not hide the pity in their eyes. I could almost hear what they were thinking: It’s a pity she’s really not very smart. I continued along my own path, seeking my greatest joy in books that had nothing to do with my studies.
When I was in Primary 5, my homeroom teacher, Mr Xie Zhaoan, wrote this in my report card: Her results are not very good; she needs to work harder! She is a bit of a loner, not liking the company of others.
In my Primary 6 report card, my teacher, Mr Xu Tongxiong, wrote: She is quite reticent, and her results are not up to scratch. She needs to work harder.
Throughout my primary school career, every report card I took home was filled with a long flow of red ink. The only black figures were the marks beside “Chinese” and “Literature”, like birds flying over a sea of red. I did not have to do any preparation for these two classes. I breezed through every exam, usually getting the top score in the class.
When I took my red-faced report card home, the person who was most puzzled and heartbroken was, of course, my father. He placed great value on education. My sister and brother were both model students, and were constantly praised by everyone they met. My father could not understand how, in his stable of swift steeds, he ended up being stuck with one mule. Every day, didn’t he see me sitting obediently at the table, head bent over my homework? Why were my results such a mess? (He
had no clue about my “extracurricular” reading underneath my homework.) What puzzled him was that nothing—not gentle instruction, harsh admonition, affable cajoling, or ingenious bribes—had any results.
One day, when I brought back yet another report card covered in red, my father flipped through it, enraged but silent. He pulled his arm back and threw that report card right out the door, where it flew into the drain. Fortunately, it was a clear, dry day, and there was no water in the drain. I squatted on its edge and, reaching down with both hands, pulled my crumpled report book out.
My father shouted, “Last term, didn’t you promise me you would study harder? Why are your results still so bad? Tell me!”
What could I possibly say? Surely I couldn’t tell my father that I was only interested in books that had nothing to do with school. I couldn’t tell him that, the whole time I was in class, I did not listen to anything that was said, and then when I came home, I only wanted to read my own books. Of course I couldn’t say that! So I kept my mouth shut.
Seeing no response from me, my father grew even angrier. Though he seldom used harsh methods of punishment, he took out the cane and swung it through the air a few times, making it whir. He indicated my hands, and I held them up. He raised the cane and brought it down on both palms several times, raising branches of red welts on them. Pain shot from my palms up my arms and to my shoulders. I gritted my teeth, putting all my effort into keeping myself from crying. After I went into my room, I applied medicated oil slowly and gently to the swollen, blood-red welts. Even in this miserable state, I was thinking to myself, When I hide under my blanket tonight, which book will I read?
When I was grown, my father and I often teased each other about this incident. “Father,” I said, “how could you be so heartless and throw my report card out like a discus?”
He said in a relaxed tone, “Your report card was such an eyesore. If I didn’t throw it out, what was I supposed to do with it?”
I said, “What if there had been water in the drain? How would I have explained it to the teacher?”
My father laughed, “Of course, I only threw it after I saw that the drain was dry.”
This matter eventually became an old joke between my father and me but, at the time, seeing him throw the report card in the drain, I truly believed his heart must have been heavier than lead. He must have felt so exasperated, fearful that I would not amount to anything. Honestly, when I was small, I was a headache to my teachers and a heartache to my parents. Even in his wildest dreams, my father could not imagine that the source of all the trouble that led to my report card looking like a sea of red was actually my mother’s huge box of ancient texts.
Now, many years later, I still cherish that primary school report card that made my father shake his head in consternation. It is evidence of my personal history. But being a wife and mother myself, I locked it away, not wanting it to see the light of day. I worried that my children would take a leaf from my book and use it as an excuse to follow the same path. If I were faced with an all-red report card, what methods would I have to resort to in order to instruct them? But fortunately, all this worry was for nothing. My three children were always very good students, with very little nagging from me.
An Unreasonable Punishment
When we left Ipoh for Singapore, I was eight years old. The school I enrolled at was near the train station in Tanjong Pagar. (It is no longer there.)
Living in Fire City and studying in this primary school, I had to travel for over an hour by bus each way. At that time, my sister Yee Ven was ten, but she acted like an adult. Every day, when the sky showed the first signs of light, she would lead me, still pale and sluggish, and our younger brother Kok Peng, staggering to the bus stop. We would walk single file, each of us carrying a heavy backpack.
Each night, I read until very late. I could not bear to put the book down, and certainly would not allow myself to sleep. The whole house was dark, with no light apart from a small lamp in the corner, giving off only the faintest light. I never got enough sleep, so I spent my daily morning commute trying to catch up. Not even a thunderbolt would have roused me. Later, when I was grown up, I retained the ability I had developed in childhood to sleep in any environment, no matter how crowded, noisy or uncomfortable. But, looking back now, I feel sorry for my older sister, who had the task of waking me when the bus reached our stop, yelling, pushing, calling and prodding until I finally awoke. Then, bleary-eyed, I would realise that my sister was scrambling to alight, giving me a fierce lecture all the while, saying, “Tomorrow, I’m not going to wake you up. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, I hear,” I mumbled in a voice barely louder than a mosquito’s buzz.
The school building sat on higher ground than the buildings around it, and we had to climb many stairs to get to the entrance. The climb cleared my drowsiness and, energy restored, I would find a corner in which I could hide away and again disappear into the beautiful world of my extracurricular books.
During Primary 2 and 3, I carried on as an ignored, unpopular girl. For me, it was an ideal situation, leaving me to quietly go about my own business.
When I reached Primary 4, I had an encounter that has stayed with me ever since. At the time, it never occurred to me that this heartbreaking thing would actually become the origin of my long writing career.
That year, my Chinese teacher was Mr Xu. He had a long, sharp face with a protruding chin, like a shoehorn. He had strands of white in his hair, like cobwebs. In class, he always held a book, glancing at it as he recited the lesson. Sometimes it seemed he was not reading the book at all, but rather entering a dream.
One day, we were learning to write compositions. Mr Xu wrote two words on the blackboard: My Hobby. Then he said in his usual formal, phlegmy voice, “Take out your composition books and begin now.”
After he said this, he sat down, staring at us with narrowed eyes. After a while, his narrowed eyes gradually closed, and his pointed chin kept nodding towards his chest.
The students were thrilled, and they all became Sun Wukong, turning the classroom into the Mountain of Flowers and Fruits where the legendary Monkey King always romped, jumping up and down. Some of the students even folded paper from their exercise books into aeroplanes and tossed them in the air, while others wadded paper into balls to be kicked back and forth. Me, I just took my book out from under my desk, put it on the table and started reading.
When the bell sounded, Mr Xu was forced back into the real world from his slumberland. He looked around at the chaotic class, his expression vacant. He cleared his throat, swallowed and said, “Hand in your compositions.”
Several students said anxiously, “I’m not done yet!”
Mr Xu stood up very deliberately, coughed and said, “Then bring them to me tomorrow.”
A shout of joy went up from the class.
That afternoon after I had eaten lunch, I sat at the table with my sister. She was doing homework while I sat planning what I would write.
What was my hobby? Reading, of course.
I took out my pen and wrote:
I am a bookworm. I live for books. As soon as I crawl into a book, I am invigorated just from the scent of it. The marks on the page stain my life with colours, and the square characters strengthen my narrow mind.
My father’s financial situation is not great, so he cannot buy books for me very often. Because I love reading so much, every day after school I run to the bookstore downstairs. I squat at the door and read the old books and magazines the store owner has thrown into a worn-out cardboard box. The kind shopkeeper not only does not chase me away, but sometimes also gives me children’s books. He always looks very kind and pleasant when he does so. It is a great treasure, and makes me feel like I’ve struck gold. After I go home, I take my time reading each book. I don’t dare to go too fast, because I’m afraid I’ll be finished before I know it. When I’ve finished all the books, I am so thick-skinned that I just go right back to the bookstore and st
art all over again.
I am that crazy about reading. In my next life, I hope to be an encyclopaedia, so that everyone can read me and gain something from the experience.
Just like that, I had written three hundred words. I read it over several times, making corrections. Then, I carefully copied it into my composition book.
The next day, I handed up my composition, then waited anxiously.
Several days later, when I saw Mr Xu enter the classroom with a stack of composition books in hand, my heart started pounding. His normally blurry expression was piercing. As soon as he walked to his desk, he plopped the composition books onto it. Turning to face me where I sat, he yelled, “Tham Yew Chin, stand up!”
Mr Xu’s grim expression and the fury in his eyes chased away my initial feelings of hope and excitement. I stood, my face as pale as a clean sheet of paper. My legs trembled.
Mr Xu pulled out my composition book. He slapped it roughly onto the desk and, as if pronouncing a guilty verdict, said, “Where did you get this composition from? Tell me!”
I felt like my heart was being pulled out of me. Surprised, I could not say a word.
After a moment, I recovered and said, “I wrote it…”
“By yourself?” He snatched up my composition book and tossed it at me. He sucked in a deep breath and said, “You are in Primary 4 and you can write this sort of composition? Who do you think you can fool?”
I bent my head and looked at the composition book, at the piece I had spent my whole afternoon writing, and saw on it in large red print: plagiarised.
I was being falsely accused, being asked to take responsibility for something I didn’t do. The shame was coupled with the looks of contempt coming from all around me, like sharp daggers viciously piercing my heart, the blood that flowed turning my pale cheeks bright red.