Passports and Plum Blossoms

by Barbara Oliverio

  “Yes, Missus?” queried a rotund man with bright white hair and mustache.

  “Good afternoon. Our taxi driver sent us here. A Mr. Murukan?” Auntie Lil was quietly polite. She knew that as two women traveling alone in another culture, we might not always be as welcome as in our own environment back home.

  The man’s face split into a grin.

  “Ah! Yes! Murukan! He is my cousin. Come ... come.” He gestured us toward the back of the store where we found a small, well-worn settee.

  “My name is Prasad, and this is my daughter Madhur.” He indicated a young woman in her early twenties, dressed in the typical Indian garb. Her shalwar (leggings) were violet toned and kameez (tunic) was in a mustard print, trendy colors that were showing up on the runways, according to the fashion magazines back home.

  “May I offer you a cup of tea or a glass of cola?” asked Madhur.

  We knew that to refuse would be impolite, so we accepted the offer of tea.

  “What brings you to our humble shop?” asked Prasad.

  “With all respect, your cousin said that you might take a moment to show us one or two of your beautiful handmade instruments.”

  Auntie Lil was not only one of the most educated women I knew, but also the best at assimilating into another culture! I knew some people from back home who would have been very ham-handed and demanding. Not my cultured aunt.

  “Of course, of course!” Prasad responded. He sat comfortably on the floor and gestured to Madhur, and she brought him an instrument made from wood in warm honey tones.

  “There are many variations of instruments in my homeland, but we specialize in those that are plucked, stringed instruments,” he waved around the shop. “What would you say this is in my hands, young miss?”

  “A sitar?” I hoped I was right.

  “Correct! And probably the most recognizable in the Western world.”

  He began to play a lovely melody on it. Madhur returned with another instrument that looked almost like it, only larger and made from darker wood. She sat next to him compactly and, flipping her long black braid over one shoulder, leaned and began to harmonize with him.

  “That, ladies, is the surbahar, which is essentially a bass sitar.”

  They played together for several mesmerizing moments, and when they finished, Auntie Lil and I applauded. Madhur and Prasad bowed their heads slightly.

  “Thank you. Now let me tell you the history of these beautiful instruments.”

  He told their histories, turning them from side to side as he spoke. The story was fascinating.

  “Would you like to try one, young miss?”

  Would I!

  “If that would be okay with you?” I could be cultured, too.

  “Come, come.” They gestured for me to sit on the floor, cross-legged as they were, and they set the sitar in my lap. Prasad showed me how to hold my hands, and I tentatively struck a note. Buoyed by my success, I struck a few more. I looked up at Auntie Lil with a grin.

  “Get a picture of this, Auntie Lil! No one will believe it!”

  “I’m ahead of you, dear.”

  She had my phone out and took a few snaps.

  “Your turn, now, Missus,” indicated Madhur with a smile.

  Auntie Lil moved to the floor and took possession of the surbahar. With a moment’s lesson, she was plucking chords as well.

  “Would you like a photo of both of you?” Prasad asked, grinning. He motioned to Madhur, and she took pictures of us with my phone.

  We handed the beautifully designed and carved instruments back to Prasad and Madhur and returned to the settee.

  “What else would you like to know?” he asked.

  “Everything!” I said. “But wait, let me get my journal out, I want to take notes.”

  We passed a bit more time learning about his business, including the fact that he came from generations of instrument makers.

  “Who will take over this shop from you?” I asked. “Madhur?”

  Oops! I hoped I hadn’t asked an improper question. There was probably some rule against women doing jobs meant for men here. My face must have shown my worry.

  “No. My precious daughter is only helping me today because her brother has the day off. He is my apprentice. Madhur is premed at the university. Her talented hands will be used when she is a surgeon.”

  So much for preconceived notions, I smiled inwardly.

  “My other siblings are younger, and some of them will also learn the craft,” said Madhur.

  “Well, this has been a wonderful learning experience, and you have been kind, but we shouldn’t be taking so much of your time,” Auntie Lil said and rose from her seat. I joined her.

  “It has been our pleasure.”

  I waited for our host to attempt to make some sort of sale, because many of my friends had warned me that we would be walking into a hard sell whenever we stopped in a shop on our travels. So far, he’d made no effort to do this. And then, there it was.

  “If you ladies are in the market for one of my instruments, I would be able to package it in such a way that I could ship it safely to your home,” he began.

  But then I was surprised.

  “However, the decision to purchase one of these instruments is not one to be made lightly on the basis of a few moments over tea. Take my card, and remember the Lucky Charm if you are ever in the market for a purchase. We can discuss your exact needs, and you can purchase the instrument that is best for you.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Prasad. It would be an honor to own one of these fine instruments.” Auntie Lil smiled and tucked his card in her bag.

  We were ushered to the exit with many smiles and well wishes, and I waited until we were halfway up the street before I quizzed her.

  “How did we get out of that store without a harder push to make a purchase?”

  “Annalise, he is a true craftsman. We were lucky to have been asked to visit and treated as guests. I suspect that he makes his sales from wealthy clients the world over and doesn’t need to push his wares on cheap tourists. He knows that when he gives out his business card, it will usually get into the right hands and he’ll make a sale worth more than any penny-ante sale today. He wants his art to go to someone who will use it appropriately, not hang it in an overdecorated family room somewhere.”

  “Is that what he thought we’d do with it?”

  “No, but he knew we weren’t musicians,” Auntie laughed. “Or at least that you weren’t. Did you hear your, um, music?”

  “Hey!”

  Auntie Lil nudged my hip with hers, and we both giggled as we returned to the bus stop. After we got on board, we made plans to hop off at the next stop: the Kampong Glam.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even though the Kampong Glam area was only a few blocks from Little India, it was as if we had traveled to another country. It was originally the home of the Malay aristocracy at the turn of the 19th century, but eventually became a multiethnic community with a heavy Arab population.

  I shaded my eyes and took in the small shops painted in pinks, greens, and yellows. “These are gorgeous, Auntie Lil,” I said.

  “If we turn here,” she said, consulting her map as we strolled, “we should see ... aha ... yes.”

  Towering in front of us was the Sultan Mosque. The onion dome glittered gold in the sunlight, and the windows on each side had the distinctive curves of Arabic design.

  “Are we allowed in?” I asked.

  “Ordinarily, yes, but I see that it is under repairs and closed today.”

  “Darn. I would like to have seen what that looked like inside.”

  We circled the formidable structure and took photos before moving on toward Muscat Street and then Arab Street where we encountered a row of vendors selling bales of textiles.

  “Auntie Marta would be in her element here, wouldn’t she,” I said as I fingered the luxurious silks, batiks, and other materials.

  “She would love the textiles, but as a quilter
, she likes to stick with cottons.”

  “I don’t know, she is a wizard with anything,” I said, thinking of the wedding dress she had made for her daughter, my cousin Sandra, in vintage tulles and lace.

  “Mmm,” Auntie Lil said as she held a length of red batik against her. “How does this make me look?”

  “Like a very edgy Mrs. Santa Claus with your white hair.” I shook my head. “Too plain. You need pattern.”

  “You’re right.” She put it down.

  “Do you think she’ll make mine?”

  “Your what, dear?”

  “My wedding gown. Do you think Auntie Marta would make it?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said over her shoulder. “What about this?”

  She held a length of green print against her.

  “Looks nice. Auntie Lil for someone who wants to matchmake me, you’re not taking very much interest in my wedding gown.” I hid my smile.

  She stopped, burst into laughter, and hugged me.

  “Oh, Annalise, let’s worry about the gown when we plan the wedding, okay? You’re reminding me of your mother who pulls out the wedding cookie recipe whenever one of you girls starts dating a young man. Relax.”

  “I know,” I grinned. “I just wanted to see how far you were leaning in on this dessert with Jasper tonight.”

  She conveyed to the vendor the length of material she wanted and paid for it, then turned to me.

  “I told you, I don’t see this as a grand romance for you.”

  “Okay. Just making sure.”

  We left the textiles and moved down the street past shops selling local items and trinkets as well as antiques. There was even a shop selling refurbished bicycles complete with wicker baskets and bells that echoed the “ching-ching” of days gone by.

  “Are we hungry yet, or should we wait for Chinatown?” she asked.

  “If you are asking if I am ready to stop and sit down for a meal, I’d say let’s eat somewhere here since we’ll actually be in China in a few days and can eat that cuisine for the rest of our trip.”

  Auntie Lil agreed, so we took a chance on a cafe we encountered on a tiny side street that had only three small tables with two chairs apiece. We ordered flatbreads called murtabaks—mine was stuffed with lamb and Auntie Lil’s with chicken.

  “I’m glad we each ordered our own,” I said as the server brought us our food.

  “This way we can split them and each have half of a different one. Excellent choice!” Auntie Lil said as she made easy work of doing just that.

  While we ate, we watched the back-and-forth of foot traffic and listened to conversations around us in a number of different tongues.

  “Mmm,” I wiped my fingers and mouth on the tiny paper napkin from the dispenser. “I bet I could eat another.”

  “I’m sure I could, too, but remember we’re having that delicious chili crab ... whatever that is ... later, so let’s save room.”

  “You’re right. And since we’re doing that, we should walk rather than take the bus. Watch the waistline.” I patted my stomach.

  “Annalise, you’re not thinking you’re fat, are you?”

  “Well, you saw me the day you came over to start planning the trip. Right after you left, the people from the Thanksgiving parade came by to see if they could use me as a balloon for this year.”

  “Annalise!”

  “Seriously, Auntie, I was a real pudgeball. Compared to Rory—”

  “Compared to Rory, those Olsen twin girls are fat.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m not slandering your friend, dear. She is lovely, but she’s inches taller than you and has completely different bone structure. You and she can’t ever look or weigh the same.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Well, do you think I’m fat?”

  I looked over at my aunt. She and I were often mistaken for mother and daughter, and part of that was because we shared the same build. Did I think she was fat? No. She’s definitely curvy—but, as we all know, so is Sophia Loren, who is considered one of the most beautiful women in the world. And what about Kate Upton, who all the guys salivate over? She certainly isn’t a size 0.

  “If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say,” she said and stood with one hand behind her head and the other on her hip.

  “Auntie! If Pop were here—”

  “He’d throw a cloak over me and tell me to calm down.” She waved her hand to dismiss that statement. “But that’s your father.”

  I looked down at my own figure, not much different than hers. My recent depression-induced extra pounds notwithstanding, I never have felt anything other than curvy. Society puts artificial norms on us, though.

  Heck, on the other end of the spectrum, even Rory has had doubts about her figure. Although she has always been slim, and you’d think that would be perfect, she went through periods of time when her self-esteem was damaged because the boys called her “giraffe” and “grasshopper.”

  “Why can’t we be happy with the way we look as long as we’re healthy, Auntie?” I mused.

  “I’m not sure, love. The standards have changed throughout the ages, so the ideal for beauty has been a moving target. Do you realize that in the Renaissance, we’d be considered downright anorexic?”

  I pinched my generous thigh and laughed.

  “Well, I’d have to get THAT in writing!”

  Auntie Lil propped her Jackie O sunglasses on her nose, then stood and gathered her bags in her brisk, efficient manner.

  “In any case, Annalise, let’s move along or we won’t finish the rest of our touring today.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  We moved to the bus stop, hopped on the familiar red bus, and exited at the stop nearest Chinatown, where we were once again transported to an entirely different culture.

  “Isn’t it amazing how all of these different areas have been able to maintain their roots and heritage in such close quarters?” I asked.

  “This is one of the things that Singapore is known for,” Auntie Lil said. “The island welcomes people from the separate cultures but doesn’t force any to assimilate and merge into one central one.”

  “Hmm.” I stopped to sit on a bench to add notes to my journal. Auntie Lil sat down next to me and waited patiently.

  “I’ll be done in a sec,” I murmured, writing furiously, and then looked up. “Oh, sorry, Auntie. I don’t mean to stop so often.”

  “No, dear, not to worry at all. I think it’s important that you take down your thoughts as they come to you.”

  I stopped and leaned back.

  “When we get back, do you think I’ll look at the file on my iPad or toss my collection of random notes in a box somewhere, Auntie Lil?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  I sighed and thought for a moment.

  “Well, they’re just fleeting glimpses, not really tied together, you know? I don’t have a real goal for them.”

  “I think your goal is to capture our journey. If you do that, you will have achieved it. Don’t overthink these things, dear. You never know what will happen.”

  I flipped back through my notes. Maybe she was right. Overthinking had certainly never served me very well in the past. With a sense of determination, I added one more thing to the notes.

  “What was that you just wrote?”

  “‘Stop overthinking!’” I said sheepishly.

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  We continued our walk through Chinatown at a leisurely pace. The open-air markets in this section of town were at once similar and quite different from the other ethnic areas we’d visited, and we stopped to enjoy the sights and sounds. I reminded Auntie Lil that as exciting as Chinatown was, it was twice as exciting to think that in a few days we would actually be in China.

  At one point in our walk, she insisted on purchasing exquisite hand-painted fans from an elderly man in a shop that was no bigger than a phone booth. The fans were constructed of bamboo and cotton, and when unfold
ed, featured paintings of scenery so detailed they looked like photographs. We enjoyed choosing colors and designs that would match the personalities of the ladies in our lives. The artist didn’t speak English, but through a series of hand gestures, he was spot-on in matching fans to our own personalities.

  Leaving the shop, we were thrilled to have found such lovely works of art.

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing I like to find on vacation! Something unique,” said Auntie Lil.

  “I’ve not traveled very far out of Colorado, so I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

  “Oh, but you will, you will! You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  I glanced at my watch and realized that we had strolled so long through Chinatown that it was time for dinner. We were one street over from the wharf, so we crossed there and walked to the Jumbo Seafood, which Jasper had recommended.

  It was a very busy place. The outdoor tables were all full of happy diners. Inside, the restaurant was divided into one large room jam-packed with tables and several smaller rooms that each held one large community table.

  Our hostess explained that a wait for two people wanting their own table would be 1 1/2 to 2 hours but that we could be seated immediately at a community table. We both nodded and said “community table!” in unison.

  We wound our way through the tightly packed tables and were seated at a table for twelve in one of the smaller rooms.

  “Well, Annalise, we’re the first ones here. This should be an adventure!” Auntie Lil grabbed my hand under the table as we looked with anticipation to see who the next diners would be to join us.

  We didn’t have to wait long. A tall, blond couple entered and sat to Auntie Lil’s right. They didn’t look American, and in a few moments we discovered that they were from Germany.

  “Are you here for the chili crab?” asked the woman, Elke, who spoke with a British accent.

  “Definitely,” answered Auntie Lil.

  Elke’s husband, Dieter, leaned across and explained that we were in for not only a culinary treat but also somewhat of a mess. He was proven correct when our server came and tied plastic bibs around our necks.