Sugarbread

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  “But history is boring,” I said. It was. My social studies reader was the neatest book I had because I tried not to touch it. When I opened it, the pages drowned me with facts and figures and sepia-printed pictures of rickshaws and dirt roads and crooked signs hanging from dingy shop-house balconies. They were not places I recognised as home.

  Ma was clearly upset. She leant towards me as if she were about to tell me a secret, but looked concerned as she searched for something in my face. “The past may be distant,” she said. “And we might not care about it as much as we do the present. But it is wrong to change the facts.”

  I knew she would only give my food back once I gave her a sign that I understood, even though I didn’t see what the big deal was.

  “Okay,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow doubtfully.

  “O-kay,” I emphasised. I was tired of her rules. She pushed the plate back across the table and shook her head. “Pin, Pin, Pin,” she simply said, shaking her head as I stuffed the vegetables and meat into my mouth. I did not speak for the rest of the meal—my big mouth had already almost cost me lunch that afternoon. Sometimes with Ma it was best to say less.

  • • •

  The day after Ma had announced that Nani-ji would move into our flat, I struggled not to think about her. Daddy’s advice had been to push it out of my mind, so I shrank the image of Nani-ji until she was a tiny white ball of fluff. I lugged my school bag on my shoulders and took long steps up the hill into the field where morning assembly was held.

  Assembly at school was the same every morning: we stood in straight rows and sang “Majulah Singapura” as two prefects raised the red and white flag on its rope. Like our voices, it bounced and jerked unevenly. After the National Anthem, we made fists with our right hands, put them over our hearts and recited the Singapore pledge about building a democratic society. Then Mrs D’Cruz took over and gave the daily devotion. Those of us who weren’t Christian were told to bow our heads in respect. “Pray to your own god,” the teachers had urged us on the first day back in Primary One, “or listen.”

  I knew it was useless praying to my own God because He would not be at the First Christian Girls’ School. He would not even listen to me unless I had my head covered and I was sitting on the carpeted floor of the temple listening to the drone of Punjabi prayers. He did not understand English, which was the only language we were allowed to speak at school. It was the language of my thoughts once I left our flat every morning and stepped onto the school bus.

  Mrs D’Cruz wore thick woolly skirts with matching jackets and had stiff, short hair that framed her head like a helmet. When she smiled, it was an effort and her whole body showed the strain. Spider’s web wrinkles cracked the corners of her eyes, her shoulders rose slightly and even her pink ears seemed to perk. She only smiled during devotions.

  “Your parents and some of you older girls might have bank accounts,” she began. We shifted and nodded. “To have a bank account, one must first earn money. To access this bank account, one uses an ATM card.”

  “Or a chequebook,” said the girl behind me, in the same pitch that Mrs D’Cruz had used. Her comment sent a ripple of giggles through the class and caused a teacher to come marching towards us. I wiped the smile off my face, feeling her glowering behind us. Mrs D’Cruz was too far away to notice. She continued.

  “God has plans for you. He wants you to prosper. Throughout our lives, when we do good deeds, God deposits money in our bank accounts. Our spiritual bank accounts.” She enunciated each syllable and dragged out the R. “When we sin, what do you think God does? He withdraws this money. At the end of our lives, God will check your account in Heaven. Will you be wealthy or will you be bankrupt?” Mrs D’Cruz looked up with triumph. “Let us pray,” she said and we all bowed our heads. Daily devotions often had something to do with money and Mrs D’Cruz explained once that this was the only language Singaporeans understood. “I say money only and wah…the whole sea of heads before me looks up.”

  There were a few things I did not understand about God, like why He was invisible. It seemed like somebody who had done so many good things for the world would want everyone to see who He was. I also didn’t understand why He created animals that suffered unnecessarily, like the stray dog with the lame leg I often saw roaming outside my block in the mornings. The most confusing thing to me was this: the God at school was surely not the same God that I knew at home. The God Mrs D’Cruz spoke about had a son named Jesus. My God had a few sons but none of them were Jesus. His name was Guru Nanak. He had eight other gods helping him win wars against the Muslims and the Hindus so He could turn people into Sikhs. Mrs D’Cruz liked to remind us that God did not have a face, and that He dwelled in everybody’s hearts but this could not be right. I knew exactly what God looked like. He had watery deep-set eyes, a white beard and wore a turban.

  Ma had bought a portrait of God from the temple a few years ago after Nani-ji had pressured her. With some stern words, Nani-ji also urged her to buy a calendar with God on it, a prayer booklet with the same picture, and a postcard. God only had one pose in all of these items. His robes were bronze, matching the soft, blurry light around His head. His turban was white. He looked sad and stern.

  Ma had stood dangerously on a rickety chair and knocked three nails into the wall to make sure that God would remain on our wall. She placed the other items in different parts of the house. “Just as they say,” she told me brightly, “God is everywhere.” He stared from the back of her bedroom door and from the top of my dresser. Ma seemed to think that this God’s presence in our flat would do us some good. That was the year when Daddy was being given fewer shifts at the hotel and he spent a lot of time searching through the classified ads in the newspaper for a different job.

  But it was only a matter of weeks before God started to bother Ma. The first thing she put away was the calendar. “Why do I need God to remind me which day of the week it is?” she asked me. The prayer book went next, when Ma decided that books were meant for telling stories, not religious chants. God’s image on the cover was distracting. She wrapped the books in a nice cotton scarf and placed them in her dresser drawer. God in the postcard suffered the worst fate—He was damaged one day when strong gusts of wind blew rain into our flat. I found it odd that Ma had left the window open that afternoon because she scolded Daddy all the time for being careless. But as she peeled a soggy God off her dresser, she shook her head and loudly expressed her remorse. “Oh dear,” she sighed. “What a pity. I paid a dollar fifty for this.” A week later, I came home from school to see Ma struggling to pluck God off the wall. She didn’t give a reason for His removal, so I came up with one on my own: God didn’t match our furniture.

  “He’s still everywhere,” Ma had warned. “But you don’t see Him. You don’t have to see Him.” I did though. After a month of seeing God all over our house, I saw Him hanging from the trees like a heavy leaf. I saw Him floating in the muddy water that surged through the canals when I played football with the neighbourhood boys. I mistook turbaned and bearded old men for God all the time at the temple—skinny Gods, Gods in collared shirts, Gods who made jokes, Gods who slipped into taxis alone after the service, Gods who drove cars with their families. The only place where I couldn’t see God was school. He hovered outside the school gates and didn’t dare enter, choosing instead to sit quietly on the kerb while I had my lessons.

  It was Monday, which meant that there would be Chapel after assembly. We shuffled out of the courtyard in single file. I hung back as the rest of the class disappeared up the stairs to the chapel. The Muslim girls stayed back as well, and we waited for the Malay teacher to tell us which classroom we’d be going to while the rest of the school sang hymns and listened to Pastor William delivering his weekly sermon. Nobody was supposed to skip Chapel—the Hindu and the Buddhist girls went and stared blankly at the hymn lyrics. The Muslims were the only girls who were excused because their religion was strict and their God did not al
low them to be in the presence of other Gods even if they shut their eyes tightly and pretended not to listen.

  I used to go for weekly Chapel when I was in Primary One. Ma and Daddy told me to quietly sit and be respectful. At the end of every Chapel session, Pastor William and Mrs D’Cruz would hand out pieces of paper with instructions to circle one option: I want to take this precious chance to know the Lord or I am happy with my religion. I always circled the second one and returned it to the prefects. Nobody bothered me about it. The choir usually led the school in peaceful songs about saviours, redemption and deer lapping at gentle waters. I kept my lips pressed tightly together but the tunes remained in my mind. At home, I sang them quietly.

  Then Ma heard me singing “Amazing Grace” one day. “Pin, we’re sending you to that school because they have high standards and you’re a smart girl. It’s not a neighbourhood school—we want you to speak good English and have better opportunities. We’re not sending you there to become a Christian.”

  I tried to explain to Ma that the songs were harmless. I did not believe in them. I liked the tunes and they played over and over in my mind even if I tried to think of something else. I made a mental note that day to ask my God to introduce better music in our temple programmes instead of the usual mumbling drone the priests delivered every week.

  Ma was not convinced. The next day, she wrote a note to give to my form teacher, Miss Yoon. Please excuse my daughter from all chapell services from now on. I used correction fluid to ink out the second “l” before I gave it to Miss Yoon. Since then, before Chapel, I would quietly exit the assembly hall with the Muslim girls and two strict Hindu girls whose mothers had also written notes. There was also a Punjabi-Sikh girl, but she was in Primary Two, and if I spoke to her, the other girls would tease me for being friends with a baby. Among the Muslim girls was Farizah, who was my best friend. She pulled her socks all the way up her legs and her pinafore was extra long so it hung loosely around her waist like a sack.

  The Malay teacher, stout in a baju kurung that covered her arms and legs and hair in shiny floral-print fabric, led us to a classroom that smelled like her: sweet rose perfume and talcum powder. She unlocked the cupboard doors and pulled out board games from the shelves. A few girls rushed for the Monopoly and others took Snakes and Ladders. Farizah and I sat in a corner of our own. She came to school prepared every Monday with stacks of cards.

  “Old Maid or Donkey?” she asked, pushing the two stacks of cards towards me.

  “Old Maid,” I said and we set up to play. Another group of girls formed a team to play Five Stones but when one of the bean pouches broke, they came to watch us.

  “Hey Pin. Is that girl your sister?” Siti asked. She pointed at another Punjabi girl. Her face was buried in a book.

  “No,” I said.

  “She looks like you.”

  She didn’t look anything like me but most people thought Punjabis looked alike. “She’s not my sister,” I said.

  “Her last name is Kaur,” Siti said suspiciously. She looked back and forth between me and the girl. “Don’t they look alike?” she asked another girl in Malay.

  I exchanged a look with Farizah, who endured questions all the time. We had that in common. Girls were always asking her why she wore her socks so high and why she was so religious. “Other Muslims don’t wear high socks,” they said, pointing to the other Malay girls as proof. They asked me questions as well. “You say you’re Indian but why do you have fair skin? Why don’t you take Tamil as your Mother Tongue language like the other Indian girls?” I had heard these questions a dozen times. The questions about my last name were not new either.

  It was Kaur because all Sikh girls and women kept Kaur as their last name. All males were Singh. Daddy said that it made us all part of one united family, but when I explained it that way to the other girls, they thought I was related to every Kaur or Singh they knew. Last year, we had a relief teacher named Miss Kaur and some girls spread a rumour that I was her daughter or her sister. It bothered me so much that I came home and told Ma about it.

  “What’s her first name?” Ma asked.

  “Satwinder,” I said.

  Ma thought for a while. “We don’t know her,” she finally said with relief. It always concerned her when Daddy and I discovered other Punjabis anywhere.

  Siti kept insisting that I was the girl’s sister. “I’m not,” I told her.

  “But you’re both Kaurs,” Siti said.

  Then Farizah spoke up in rapid Malay. “Okay, yeah, Siti. She’s her sister. Everybody who has the same last name is related in this school.” Everybody started laughing and making jokes, pairing all of the people whom we knew with the same common last names. Melissa Tay and Tay Wan Hua were twins then! Mrs Lee the science teacher and Miss Lee who taught art could be mother and daughter! Old Mrs Chia who taught home economics to the older girls was married to Mr Chia, the man who worked at the drinks stall! This last pairing brought on shrieks of laughter. The Malay teacher looked up and told us all to settle down. Siti scowled and walked away.

  Farizah sat with her legs tucked behind her. The long skirt flowed around her like a blanket. “Old Maid!” she declared, turning over my cards to expose an image of a skinny gap-toothed woman with straw-like hair. “You’re not paying attention.”

  I wasn’t. I was looking at the Punjabi girl who was reading her book intently. She had short hair, tied back in a high ponytail like mine. I wondered why she was also in the group who didn’t go for Chapel. There were a few other Punjabi girls at our school with long hair. They went to the auditorium for Chapel and they listened. I wondered about their mothers and what they were like. Why weren’t they afraid of their daughters coming home singing Christian songs?

  • • •

  The school bus on the way home was always stuffy no matter how many windows we opened. I was always one of the first to get on the bus because I didn’t stay back to buy snacks from the tuck shop. My stomach rumbled, waiting for Ma’s food. I tossed my bag on the seat I wanted, furthest from the old bus attendant, whom we called Bus Uncle. The other girls began to trail in, clutching packets of shredded cuttlefish and French fries soaked in chilli sauce. The driver climbed in through his entrance, followed by Bus Uncle.

  Bus Uncle was an old Chinese man who sat in the very front seat. He was there to make sure we didn’t misbehave and to collect the bus fees in a small envelope from our mothers every month. In a loud, screeching voice, he talked to the bus driver in Chinese, sometimes glancing at us. “What is he saying?” we always pestered the Chinese girls, but they shrugged and said that he was talking rubbish. He said that we were too noisy even when we were perfectly still. He told us to shut the windows because it would rain soon, even when the sun was shining brightly and the sky was an intense blue. Sometimes, when we talked back, he pulled a thin rotan from under his seat and threatened to cane us.

  “Sit down,” he screeched but it always came out as “shit dow”. We changed it to “shit now” and chanted it back to him. “Shit now! Shit now! Shit now!” Puzzled and angry, he would get up and slowly come at us, the movements of the bus making his body tip and wobble like he was on a boat in turbulent water. His white knuckles shone like pearls as we squealed and told each other to shut up.

  Today started out quiet. Farizah lent me her Donkey cards to take home and I was spreading them out on the floor in the back of the bus, while the other girls crowded around and asked if they could play. Siti, too proud, sat on her own and waited until I called out to her.

  “Oi, you playing or not?” I asked her after I gave out cards to everyone. She shrugged and took the last few from me. The bus shivered as it started, then it slowly rolled past the narrow school gates. As it picked up speed, wind rushed in through the open windows, making my hair fly into my mouth. We wove through the neighbourhoods of Toa Payoh and Bishan, brick-and-concrete numbered blocks of flats above shops, squares of basketball courts, overhead bridges lined with creeping vines and b
right pink bougainvillea. Shiny palm leaves burst from the tops of some trees, while others had thin branches that stretched across the sky like spiders. Daddy always told me to pay attention to the trees when I drew our neighbourhood with him because I often forgot about them. They were so neatly lined along the paths that I confused them with the buildings, the roads, the shops and everything else in Singapore.

  The wind had started out as a whistle, but became a roar as the bus continued. My voice rose to be heard over it and the other girls did the same. Soon we were shouting just for the sake for being loud and Bus Uncle was twisting in his seat. The bus jerked forward to stop for Susheela Surangam, who watched us from the front with envy. She was the last one to get on the bus every morning, so she had to sit in the most undesirable seat, right next to Bus Uncle. On the way home, she was the first to get off, which meant that she couldn’t join our games for very long, so she just didn’t, choosing to sit in the front seat again instead. Bus Uncle gave us a warning to be quiet and to return to our seats. We ignored him and continued to shout until Bus Uncle slowly advanced on us. Squealing and pushing, we scrambled to our seats. “Shh…shut up!” we hissed at each other between giggles. “He’s coming, shhh!” Close up, Bus Uncle’s face was a series of folds and flaps, one layer of skin covering the other. His wrinkles were so deep that they had shadows. He wore glasses with large frames that covered part of his face.

  “Shit dow,” he croaked, aiming his glares at the girls directly in front of him. From my angle, I noticed that his ears were lined with dark hairs. I nudged the girl next to me, Shu Ping, whose face was already red and bloated from keeping down her laughter. “Eee, look at his ears. Like a monkey,” I whispered.

  Shu Ping exploded, laughter pouring out of her like confetti. “Shut up,” I said but I was laughing too. Bus Uncle turned slowly to face us. He asked Shu Ping something in Chinese and she didn’t respond. He looked at me then he asked again. She shook her head and made herself look serious, gulping down her giggles until they were completely gone. Then he shifted his gaze to me.