• • •
The first time their father left, it was only for a few hours, but it was enough to make Jini’s mother panic. There was fear in her eyes as she paced the house and looked at the clock on the living room wall. Before storming out of the house, he had told her not to expect him for dinner. He said he was going out to find more work to support the family and when Mother questioned him, he became enraged. “And what if I go out for drinks after a long day’s work? What is wrong with that?” “Everything is wrong!” her mother retorted. “Sikhs do not drink and smoke! It’s disgraceful!” But he simply shook his head and left the house. Jini knew then that it was the beginning of a longer disappearance, because there was something final in the way he left that evening, the way he forced his eyes away from hers and Bilu’s as he left.
Jini’s father came home the next morning but he left again the following week and he was gone for three days. He returned with a present for Bilu, a wooden car. Jini didn’t get anything. “You’re too big for presents,” her father reasoned. She was eleven, but suddenly she felt much older. She smelled something strong on his breath; Sarjit told her later it was whiskey. It made her feel sick and she had to force herself to eat later at dinner.
Jini’s father left for good a few days after her birthday in May. He had been making extended trips to somewhere for a long time now—she did not know where—and her mother suspected he was on the run from loan sharks. “He must be gambling and borrowing to pay for drinks and opium,” Jini overheard her telling Sarjit when he returned for the weekend. “He thinks he can just run away and nobody will find him.”
She knew that her father had land in India, although she wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded like a hopeful prospect. He could sell it and come back. She didn’t miss him all that much because he rarely spoke to her anyway. They didn’t have much in common. He used to talk to Sarjit about politics and government, about Singapore’s landscape changing in the future. “More and more people are coming in. Soon this patch of land will be precious. They are planning on building high-rise flats everywhere. It’s more efficient.” He spoke of a new Singapore like it was some enchanted kingdom. Jini thought of the hotel and bank buildings sprouting up in town. On clear days, one could see the faint skeleton of a forming skyline. She might live in the sky one day.
Everybody in the neighbourhood knew about the opium dens because they had friends who had seen her father there. Jini could tell that they knew because they looked down uncomfortably whenever they saw the family at the temple without their father. They didn’t ask where he was. Nobody wanted to say anything. The person who finally told them was Pra-ji.
Pra-ji is a wise man who converses with God then conveys His message to those who seek His help; he wears white from head to toe and has a long beard that is turning grey. His eyes are small but when he speaks, they well up with life. At the temple, he leads the singing with his deep voice, and the men and women follow along.
After the service, he talks to individual families in the courtyard. They flock to him with questions. My daughter is sick—will she get better? I have a pain in my back that won’t go away—will you ask God why He is doing this to me? Will my mother be able to make it here from India? Who broke my shop windows? What should I do when my son talks back? He addresses all of these questions quietly, keeping his answers discreet. The crowd only diminishes when they begin to get hungry and somebody announces that langar is being served. Then their questions can wait.
Jini’s mother has a question for Pra-ji and as people trickle back into the temple, she remains outside, but tells Sarjit to bring Jini and Bilu inside.
“She’s going to ask him to find you a wife,” Jini says as they queue to get their food. Mischief dances in her eyes. Sarjit reaches out to pinch her on the arm but she shrinks away and moves closer to Bilu, who is sucking on his thumb. She notices Sarjit blushing.
“I don’t want a wife,” he mutters. He told her one day that he wants to study physics at university, but the thought of finding money for the fees is laughable. He is making a good salary in his army job; if he leaves, what will the family do? Her mother would never forgive him.
They receive their food on steel plates, similar to the ones they have at home. The men and women serving are solemn, with their heads covered and their eyes cast downwards. Mother has told Jini before to remember how great God is when she receives her roti and dhal and yoghurt. “Ours is the only religion in which the poorest man will never starve,” she always says proudly. “As long as you come to the temple and pray and believe in God, you receive langar in return.” Behind the men and women, clouds of smoke billow from clay pots, and flames from large kerosene stoves lick hungrily at the air. Jini nods in appreciation and goes to sit down on the women’s side of the hall. She saves a space on the floor for her mother, who doesn’t show up. A sudden fear grips Jini. What would she do if her mother abandons her too?
She looks across the hall at Sarjit and Bilu. Sarjit is trying to get Bilu to stay still as he eats. He is careful about not pressuring Bilu too much—anything can set him off and they don’t want to deal with the embarrassment of having the entire Punjabi community witness Bilu at his worst. Bilu squirms and ends up spilling most of his food on the floor. Sarjit looks exasperated. He tries to make eye contact with Jini, and she shrugs back at him, secretly pleased that he is dealing with Bilu for a change. She envies him sometimes for being able to stay in the army barracks for the whole week, away from the family.
After they eat their lunch, they put their plates in the back kitchen and wash their hands. The floor in the kitchen is wet and greasy under Jini’s feet. The sinks are overflowing with dirty dishes and grey suds. She scrubs her hands, remembering what her brother said about his army mate who never showers. On her thumb, there is another mysterious little mark, one that she’s never seen before. When she scratches, it becomes irritated and red. She runs water over it until an old woman behind her tells her to hurry up. “Stop using up so much water,” she grumbles at Jini, who quickly apologises and steps away.
Their mother is still in the courtyard talking to Pra-ji when Jini, Sarjit and Bilu come outside. Sarjit is trying to steadily hold Bilu, who twists and whines and keeps his eyes fixed in a sideways glance at the sky.
“Sat sri akal, Pra-ji,” Jini says. Pra-ji greets her back. “Growing big, dear,” he says. She blushes. Everybody says she’s growing bigger and she knows they mean that she’s getting taller and looks more mature, but sometimes she can’t help but wonder if they notice that her chest is beginning to swell. Some of her school friends have mentioned that she could pass for a secondary school girl with her body. She throws her scarf over her chest so Pra-ji can’t see but his attention is now on Sarjit and Bilu.
“How’s the army?” he asks Sarjit in English. Jini’s mother quickly looks to her for a translation but Jini shakes her head to let her know it’s nothing important.
“Good,” Sarjit says. Next to Pra-ji’s big frame, Jini’s brother is a bag of bones. His knees and elbows jut out awkwardly and there is very little hair on his face.
“Very good. Your mother tells me you intend to get married soon,” he says. Jini snorts. Her mother gives her a sharp look.
Sarjit shrugs and looks at the ground. His cheeks are turning red.
“I know a family in Ipoh who is interested in marrying off their daughter here. Good family. The father is a police officer,” Pra-ji tells Mother. She nods vigorously, only giving Sarjit a quick glance. Bilu strays from Sarjit and begins to play with the mess of shoes people have left outside. After rubbing his hands over the soles, he puts his hands in his mouth.
“Don’t do that!” Jini calls. She claps to get Bilu’s attention. He stares at her, frozen for a moment, before he pushes his whole fist into his mouth. Jini opens her mouth to call out again but she stops when she realises that several people in the courtyard have turned to stare. They seem to think that from a distance, the family won’
t notice them gawking at Bilu as if he were some strange animal.
Pra-ji lowers his voice and tells Mother, “This girl will be quite accepting of…the family’s problems. I can assure you of that.”
“How do you know for sure?” Mother asks worriedly.
A smile spreads across Pra-ji’s face. “She doesn’t have many suitors. Sarjit will be her best option.”
• • •
At home that evening, Jini’s mother is crying. She cries every Sunday as Sarjit packs his bags to leave the next day. Jini is sitting in the room with him, watching him fold his clothes.
“Coming back next weekend? You can meet your new girlfriend,” she teases. He swats her on the mouth and it stings so much, she begins to tear up.
“Stop it,” he hisses. “It’s not funny. Can’t you hear Ma crying?”
“She’s sad because you’re leaving. She cries every week.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I think Pra-ji told her more things about Pa and what he’s been doing. I think he’s moved to India permanently.”
“Permanently?”
“Yeah, that means he won’t come back, you understand?”
“Cannot be.”
“Can be. When you two were getting your shoes and helping Bilu, he pulled me aside and told me I might become the man of the house because Pa is not coming back,” he says grimly.
“How does he know?”
Sarjit shrugs. “I don’t know. He knows everything. He says he spoke to Guru-ji who told him to tell us not to hope for a return. I have to get married now, Jini. There’s no way I can refuse to do so.”
Jini feels the rage growing inside her again. It makes her heart pound inside her ears. She thinks of all the evil words she knows—four-letter words in English, Chinese swear words she has heard in school. She imagines herself throwing them at her father like daggers until he collapses.
“I’m going early in the morning tomorrow, probably before you wake up. Take care,” he tells her, reaching out to tug one of her plaits. Then he stops. “Do something about your skin, will you? It’s getting disgusting.”
She looks down at her arms and sees three new spots, bright red and hard like pimples. “I bathe!” she insists. “I bathe twice every day. I even got a scolding the other day for using up too much water.” But Sarjit gives her a wary look.
“Get out so I can finish packing,” he says before he yanks one of her plaits and makes a sound like a toilet flushing. She pinches his arm and leaves the room, rubbing one of the patches on her skin.
She goes out into the backyard and sits in the moonlight, thinking. In the dark, the houses in the neighbourhood seem to slouch less. Bright fluorescent lights shine from square upstairs windows, revealing pale walls and ceiling fans, rusted iron grilles and wall calendars. She looks over her shoulder at her own house to see what others might see when they peek in. A gate that never stays latched. Patches of grass and dirt and dust. A mother pacing her room nervously, never sleeping, always thinking. A fitful little boy who can’t express the pain he is feeling unless he opens his mouth and screams it out. A young man lying on his back in his bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about theories and equations he will never solve.
And how would she look to a passer-by? A girl crouched in the moonlight, running her hand down her bumpy arm. A girl with long plaits that hang down her back. A girl who is growing up but wants to put the whole world on hold, stop the buildings from rising, stop the night from swallowing the evening sun, stop everything until her family is normal again.
PART II
5
1990
MONSOON SEASON WAS only supposed to arrive at the end of the year but it began in early October and stayed. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky, threatening to burst. Rain fell in slanted sheets and wind ripped through our corridor, knocking over the potted plants. Raindrops rolled off the canvas awnings outside shops, off the leaves that tipped like open hands making offerings. Our shoes had to be kept inside otherwise they would get soaked. Our clothes could no longer be strung on the bamboo poles because the sun was hardly out long enough to dry them. Ma draped them on the chairs and hung some from hangers that she hooked onto a ceiling pipe in our kitchen. In the dark, the ghostly shapes of clothes were all I could see besides God’s eyes.
Daddy made a joke to me one day that the monsoon was as unexpected and as unwelcome as Nani-ji and maybe it was learning from her example of barging in and staying. He was very careful when he made this joke; he looked around to see if Ma was within earshot and even though she wasn’t, he whispered. Nani-ji was not to be joked about these days. She was often tired. When she did speak, she chose her words carefully and she made sure that everybody listened. She did not like being interrupted. She got older in the same way the sky rapidly darkened in the evenings—every time I looked at her, she seemed to have withered a bit more.
I complained one evening about the flying ants and moths that flew in from outside. They always appeared during the rainy season. Nani-ji told me that their homes had been destroyed by the rain, so they needed the warmth from our lights. I switched off all of the lights if I saw any insects. I was afraid they’d lay eggs in my nose while I was sleeping. Farizah’s sister told her it happened to a man in rural Malaysia years ago and he was still coughing up insects.
“You know what I used to do?” Nani-ji said after I whined that there were so many flying ants in the corridor, I felt like they were crawling on my skin. “I used to fill a bucket of water and put it directly under the lamp. The flies are attracted to light first, then warmth. They used to dive right into the water and drown before they even realised it was just a reflection.”
I thought that was rather evil of Nani-ji. Are you listening to this? I asked God silently, hoping He’d take note. Nani-ji told me to get a bucket.
“Go on, fill it with water. I’ll show you.”
“No,” I said and walked away. When I glanced over my shoulder, she looked worn and sad and I felt a bit sorry for her. I tried to be kinder. “I don’t want to kill them,” I said gently.
Nani-ji looked too tired to argue. She shuffled into my room and sat on the edge of the mattress. She let out a shaky sigh. “Close the windows,” she said. Wind whistled through the flat. I reached over the bed to shut them. Nani-ji rubbed her arms to warm them. Next to her on the mattress was a small velvet pouch fastened with golden strings. She untied the strings and emptied the contents onto the bed. It was Ma’s jewellery.
“You gave those to Ma for her wedding,” I told Nani-ji.
“I did,” she said. She laid out the long chandelier earrings, the necklace that looked like a string of tears, the solid bangles with intricate patterns engraved into their sides. They sparkled in the dimness of my room.
“Did Ma look pretty on her wedding day?” I asked, holding the earrings to my lobes. They were heavier than I had expected.
Nani-ji shrugged. “Every bride is beautiful on her wedding day. Your mother was no exception.” She took the earrings back from me and lay them out on the mattress again. “Your mother could have married anybody. Had she been more decent, she could have married somebody with more money and I wouldn’t have had to give her my jewellery for her wedding.”
This made me mad. I thought about the wedding portrait that hung on the wall of Ma’s room and how Daddy beamed in the picture, holding her hand tightly as if she might disappear if he didn’t. Nani-ji was saying that Ma should never have married Daddy.
I pushed myself off the bed and shrugged. “It’s just jewellery,” I scoffed.
Nani-ji looked up sharply. “Just jewellery?”
“It’s not a big deal. Ma says your jewellery is old and outdated anyway. When she gets it back, she plans on melting it all down and changing it.” The words rushed out of my mouth so quickly, I didn’t have time to think. I told myself that it was okay to tell Nani-ji what Ma had said; I wasn’t lying. But I felt unea
sy, especially when Nani-ji scooped up the jewellery and funnelled it back into the pouch. “Changing it,” she repeated softly to herself before she pursed her lips. She pulled the gold strings tightly together so the mouth of the pouch puckered.
I left the room and looked at God and shut my eyes. Could He turn back time? I wanted to go back five minutes and bite my lip when Nani-ji had insulted Daddy. Help, I said frantically. I’ve done something terribly wrong. If He were listening, He did not look like it. His stare was vacant, as if busy thinking about something else.
• • •
The rains did not last all day; they came in bouts. In the gaps between, snails inched out of the wet soil, stray cats roamed cautiously from the sheltered void decks and the boys spilt out of their flats, anxious to get a good game in before the older boys claimed the space. Roadside didn’t come round to our flat because he was frightened of Nani-ji, but he saw me getting off the school bus one afternoon and told me to join them.
“Will you let me play?” I asked. I demonstrated how I could remove my new kara. Roadside nodded. I went back to the flat and searched for Ma. She was in her room and wouldn’t even notice if I came home and left again. Nani-ji was asleep. I changed quickly and went back outside. The ground was wet and fat raindrops were still rolling off the leaves on the trees. Late afternoon sunlight, golden and dappled between branches, shone on the neighbourhood.
“I’m going to be goalie!” I called.
Kaypoh turned around. “Too late. You can go over there,” he said. He pointed at a cluster of boys standing around the designated goal—a wide space between a pair of sandals.
I shook my head. “I’m the goalie today.”
“Who says so?” Kaypoh challenged.
I pointed at Roadside. Kaypoh grinned. “Ah, I see,” he said. “Like that.” Roadside shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t understand what Kaypoh meant but when I looked at Roadside for an explanation, he avoided my gaze.
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