A Life in Words

by You Jin

  Xie Ke has retired now, but we keep in touch. He is still a bibliophile. He has a dedicated study in his house, with stacks of books that practically reach the ceiling, but he always has space for one more. When new books are released, he always buys as much as possible, without hesitation. Once the money is spent, he does not feel the least regret. Many bookstores treat him as a VIP, giving him a special discount on every purchase. Sometimes there will be a book that is praised by critics, but not popular with the public, or perhaps a book from China in which one of my works has appeared. No matter how thick the book is nor how much it costs, he will order it and have it shipped to me. Every time I receive a book in the mail, I feel his earnest hope and drive for the generation of authors who have come after him.

  I was seventeen and in Pre-U 1 at River Valley Pre-U when I first met Mr Yap Koon Chan, another influential figure in my early career. At the time, Mr Yap was the president of the Singapore Chinese Teachers’ Association and chief editor of the journal Nanyang Jiaoyu. I wrote several analytical articles on Tang Poetry during his tenure there, which appeared in each issue of Nanyang Jiaoyu.

  Once I unexpectedly received a letter from Mr Yap inviting me for a luncheon at the Hangjiang Restaurant. The restaurant was crowded, and all the diners were adults. Nervously, I took out the invitation and asked someone standing near the door, “May I ask which person is Yap Koon Chan?”

  He scanned the crowd near us and called to one gentleman, “Mr Yap, there’s someone here to see you.”

  Mr Yap hurried over to where I stood. I looked him over and saw that he was tall and quite stoutly built. His face and eyes were round, and full of laughter. He asked, “You are– ?”

  I gave him my name, and he was caught off guard. Recovering himself he said, “I always assumed someone writing analytical essays about Tang poetry would be a professor in her 50s or 60s. I never thought you’d be so…”

  I laughed, and all the tension evaporated from me. Ever since that meeting, Mr Yap and I have remained friends.

  After Mr Yap became president of the Singapore Cultural Association, he took his obligation to cultivate literary circles and spread the literary arts seriously. He has done a lot of noteworthy things for Singapore’s literary arts circles, from creating awards to publishing book series, and from commending established authors to leading and supporting young writers.

  Realising of Dreams

  During my studies at Nanyang University, I faced the biggest heartbreak of my life, when my maternal grandmother passed away. My grandmother was an outstanding woman. From her photos, one would not call her good-looking, but to me, she was always a very attractive woman. Her charm lay in her personality, which was nurtured by an extreme bookishness.

  She did not like to perm her hair, and instead let it hang straight down her shoulders. Her face was powdered lightly. She was slim, and liked tailor-made, high-necked, short-sleeved cheongsams made from plain fabric. Her back was straight when she walked, and she was full of energy. When she talked, her speech was elegant and exuded great charm.

  My grandfather was a businessman, and because he was relatively successful, my grandmother had enjoyed a fairly wealthy lifestyle. In those days of plenty, what she loved most was not mahjong or shopping, but reading. There was a bookshelf in her house that was full of many thread bound editions of old books, and a multitude of renowned works of literature. In that era when academia was very much a man’s world, my grandmother did not have a chance to go to school, so every character she knew, she learned on her own.

  Later, when my grandfather’s business failed and the family fortune disappeared, my grandmother had to sell much of her treasured jewellery and, later, suffered through a desolate time with my grandfather. This was when I was born. What I saw was not a grandmother surrounded by maids who gave her everything she demanded. Rather, the grandmother I knew was not only busy with housework, but had to sew to supplement the family income. But after her life of finery had ended, my grandmother did not complain. Instead, she valued every second in life and when night fell, she would wash away the fatigue of the day with a cold shower and enter the warmth of her fort of books, willingly becoming a puppet as she handed control of her emotions over to literature.

  When I was young and naïve, I was not close to my grandmother, feeling she was not like other grandmothers. Other people’s grandmothers would make all sorts of tasty cookies and cakes, and feed them to their grandchildren. Other people’s grandmothers would sit in the moonlight, telling their grandchildren stories or teaching them to sing old folk songs or nursery rhymes. My grandmother never did such things.

  She was always busy. When she finished fussing about the housework, she would take a book, and quietly lose herself in the secret world of the written word. At those times, my grandmother was like someone in meditation, withdrawn from the outside world.

  After my family left for Singapore, whenever I thought back to my grandmother, my mind would be filled with an image of someone who was grave, refined and content in her simplicity. This image became a portrait of her that I carried with me.

  Then I grew up.

  After I started secondary school, every time my grandmother wrote to my mother, she would always enclose a note for me. Her handwriting was fine but not delicate, each character very angular. It seemed to be a reflection of the sort of person she was, strong and stubborn.

  She employed concise words in her letters, rarely wasting time on anything unnecessary. She got straight to the point. She did not give me stale advice, telling me to work hard at my studies or be filial to my parents. From the very first letter, she plunged straight into talk about books. Using clear, elegant words, she related a careful and detailed analysis of the special features, merits, and demerits of the books she had read.

  Her letters were always of the most captivating, beneficial sort. As soon as I finished reading one, I would ardently wait for the next. We were separated by two generations—roughly half a century—but our relationship through letters lasted a decade. My grandmother’s financial situation was not very good, and I only had a very small allowance, but during our period of correspondence, whenever she had a little extra, she would mail a book to me.

  We also chatted about numerous other topics. My grandmother became my emotional repository, receiving news of all my dreams and disappointments, my failures and successes, and my joys and sorrows. She knew everything.

  Once, she included a newspaper clipping in her letter. When I unfolded it and read, I saw that it was a story she had written, “The Black and White Brothers”. I was thrilled to see that it had been published in the Nanyang Siang Pau’s literary supplement. This was later followed by a string of other works she had had published in newspapers and magazines. There were short stories, essays, romances, and the most outstanding piece, entitled “My Experience of Self-teaching”, describing her painstaking effort to learn to read and write during that old conservative, traditional culture. From not even knowing the basics to gaining a level of erudition, it was a lengthy course full of tears and struggles. That difficult journey exhausted her, but she also took great joy in it. Her work was genuine, reaching straight into the reader’s heart.

  This long period of correspondence gave me access to my grandmother’s world, drawing me into the deep recesses of her heart. I clearly saw all her dreams and aspirations. These dreams rose up from her youth, but because of social restrictions and the decline of family fortunes, she had lost the chance to make them a reality. Now her work was published in the newspaper, so her aspirations of becoming a writer were not completely wasted. My grandmother was getting very old, and her health was rapidly deteriorating.

  In one letter, she wrote of the feelings welling up in her:

  These past couple of years, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. I need a magnifying glass to help me read. The worst is that I cannot read more than a few words in a row without my eyes watering. It’s really quite depressing. You are still young.
Yew Chin, you can go about as you please, reading all sorts of books. If you don’t like one, you can just read another. But I cannot. I do not have many days left, so I have to choose my reading material carefully. One can read a good book a hundred times and not get tired of it. Sometime when I read a good book, I want to go back and read it again, but when I think of how little time I have, I don’t dare do that. Oh, how I hate having such poor eyesight! If not, I would sacrifice my sleep to read every night, and read all the good books under heaven. Then I would die without regrets.

  When she heard I had entered Nanyang University’s Chinese Department, my grandmother quickly wrote a letter to me. When I opened it, it was as if laughter rolled out of it, like a string of pearls falling to the ground one by one. I could feel the excitement she could hardly control. She wrote:

  It has been a very long time since I was last this happy. Holding your letter, I could not sit still for the rest of the day, so overjoyed beyond words was I. Yew Chin, my obedient granddaughter, you have gotten into the university and not only that, but you are studying your favourite Chinese Studies, I feel that my own unfulfilled dreams are all being realised in you. I have no more regrets.

  Not long after that, though she rarely travelled far from her own house, my grandmother took a train to Singapore to visit me. I took her to the restaurant at the rooftop of the library for dinner, then we walked around Nanyang Lake. The fragrance of plants, trees and flowers wafted in the gentle evening breeze. There were several stone benches around the lake, and we sat on one of them chatting. As I sat facing my grandmother, I was surprised to see how old she had grown. Age was like a spider, spinning its web in her forehead and around her eyes. There was a faint yellow tint to it in the fading light. At a glance, the wrinkles looked like the shadow of laughter. There were many students sitting beside the lake, talking and arguing. Smiling, my grandmother took in the scene before her, and her heart overflowed with pleasure when she spoke, reiterating what she had said in her letter: “You’ve entered the university, studying literature. My dreams have been realised in you.”

  The beautiful rosy clouds in the sky transformed into a peacock spreading open its tail, looking and smiling down at this grandmother and granddaughter. I felt we were very close then, almost occupying a single heart and mind.

  While I was in university, I certainly worked very hard at my studies. Everyone else thought I was just naturally inclined that way. What they did not realise was that I was studying on behalf of two generations.

  When the time drew near for me to graduate, my grandmother was like a lamp whose oil was burning out. Her health was in steady decline. Her letters were both less frequent and shorter. Her body was failing her, and she had little energy. Her handwriting seemed to walk drunkenly across the page, wobbly and unsteady; still, several times she expressed her most ardent hopes for me:

  Yew Chin, you will graduate soon. I have waited so long for this day—so long. I would like to see you in your mortarboard with my own eyes, to see you walk across the stage, and see you receive your degree.

  She held on to this wish so firmly, with all the strength she possessed, planning to attend the graduation ceremony dressed in a qipao she made herself. The base of this dress was blue, like the waters of a deep, quiet lake, and it was covered with delicate white flowers, each one laughing softly. That was how she described her dress.

  Exam season was upon us. The atmosphere was tense, feeling as if a tempest was coming. I studied day and night. No matter whether it was light or dark, and no matter where I was, all I did was study.

  It was as if the written word was a stalk of grain and I was a locust, or it was a mulberry leaf and I was a silkworm. It was good grain, and I was the pest consuming it.

  I studied until I was exhausted, then I would walk around the lake for a break. When I felt the gentle breeze in the leaves, I would imagine myself in cap and gown, taking a photo with my qipaoclad grandmother beside this placid lake. Thinking of it, I was very happy, and the joy would burst from my heart, coming out in a huge smile on my face.

  Each day ran into the next as I consumed book after book. I absorbed it in my mind as a rich, generous supply of nourishment. No matter what the subject was, as soon as I opened the exam book, my pen flew across the page, fluidly composing my answers.

  The exam season passed, and it was the cool month of April. We returned home and waited for our results. I took a bus to Ipoh to visit my beloved grandmother. Hoping to surprise her, I did not tell her I was coming.

  The door to the residence was wide open, and my grandfather sat in the living room reading. He held a red pen in hand, with which he made notes. I called, “Grandfather!”

  He raised his head, and cried out in surprise. He stood up and said, “Oh! You’re here! That’s good, really good.” Then he added, “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming so we could meet you at the station?” He rushed to pull a chair over, “Here, have a seat!”

  I asked, “Where’s Grandmother?”

  He replied, “Your aunt took her to see the doctor.”

  Seeing that I was startled, my grandfather quickly added, “She’s been suffering from arthritis. It’s an old condition. Don’t worry.”

  After a short while, my grandmother returned. As soon as I saw her, my heart sank. It had only been two or three years since I last saw her, but she had aged badly, with a kind of haggardness brought on by extreme fatigue. She had suffered physical hardships her whole life, and emotional hurt half her life. Of course she was tired.

  We sat in the kitchen, each with a hot cup of tea in hand. We passed the day in idle conversation. Then, she suddenly said, “I really love the sea. It is so boundless, so imposing. Ipoh is surrounded by mountains, and cut off from the sea. I envy you, being able to see the ocean whenever you lift your head, contemplating the waves.”

  Hearing my grandmother quote so casually from the Tang Dyansty poet Li Bai, I could not help but laugh. I said, “But the steepness of the mountain peaks can rival the surge of the beautiful sea. It’s because of the mountains surrounding it that Ipoh has its own unique beauty.”

  My grandmother smiled faintly and said, “A wide mountain range really does have a special sort of beauty. But when a city is hidden in the middle of a bunch of mountains, the people who stay there will feel a little claustrophobic.”

  My grandmother had lived her whole life in Ipoh, and spent her whole life at home. It was no wonder she felt a little depressed. I could certainly understand what she was saying.

  Before I could reply, she went on, “I have already told your uncle that when I die, after I am cremated, I want my ashes to be scattered at sea. That will allow me to see the world!”

  I was just 21 at the time. Being so young, I could not understand my grandmother’s feelings. I just felt it strange and inauspicious for her to talk about death. She went on, “Death is just another form of rest, so what’s there to be afraid of? When my time comes, don’t make a big production of it all. Just wear a clean white shirt, and that will be enough.”

  This sort of conversation made me very uncomfortable, but when I thought back on it later, I wondered if my grandmother did not suspect that death was already waiting at her door, if perhaps its shadow wasn’t already falling on her.

  After staying in Ipoh for two weeks, I went back to Singapore. When my results came out in May, I was mad with delight to find that I was the 12th annual recipient of the First Place Gold Medal in the Chinese Department.

  That night, I wrote to share the news with my grandmother. Her reply was almost immediate. It was very short and the writing uneven, as if splattered carelessly across the page:

  I am truly proud right now, my dear, sweet granddaughter—so proud of you. I just took out my qipao and tried it on. It is a good fit, well-suited for the occasion. Your graduation ceremony is on 29 July, and I will definitely be there for it. Do you know that I have been waiting for this day for the past three years?

  My grandmothe
r and I were both waiting, me in Singapore and her in Ipoh—waiting so happily for this day to come. I had a qipao tailored for the event. It was white, silky, bright, and shiny. It was the biggest luxury I had owned in all my 21 years.

  I never once imagined that we would receive news from Ipoh in early June that my grandmother had been rushed to the hospital with acute pneumonia. We were making our arrangements to rush to Ipoh to see her, but before we could even set out, we received word that she had passed away on 7 June 1972, just over a month before what I thought of as our joint graduation. She was 70 years old.

  Even now, so many years later, I clearly remember the moment I received news of her death. It was a pain that cut right down into the depths of my being, as if my heart had been ripped out. Heartbroken, I wept. This was the first time in my life I was so miserable, so tragically aware that there are some things in life that are beyond your power, despite all your best laid plans. And my grandmother’s qipao, with those cheerful white flowers, became her funeral clothes.

  After the funeral, we went back to my grandmother’s house. On her desk in her study, I found a thick copy of Dream of the Red Mansions. She had read half of it. It was face down, with its cover on top and the pages fanned out beneath, as if quietly waiting for its owner to come back. When I saw it waiting so futilely, my heart was broken. Amidst a fresh spring of tears, I recalled the words of the letter my grandmother had written to me a month earlier:

  I’m currently rereading Dream of the Red Mansions. I read it when I was younger and was really impatient to get to the end. I did not really gain anything from it because I read without understanding. Now that I’m rereading it, I’m at a different stage in life and have a different state of mind, so I have a much deeper understanding of the inner workings of the book. The only thing is that I read so much more slowly now. At this pace, I don’t know when I’ll finish all three volumes.