Sugarbread

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  PART IV

  11

  1991

  MA’S FACE WAS wet with tears when she finished her story. “When people began to ask questions about where my mother and I were when Bilu died, I had to tell them that I had been at Pra-ji’s house. But he denied it. He said I was never there. He was afraid that I would tell people what he had done, so he just pretended that it never happened. Then the rumours started.”

  “What kind of rumours?” I asked.

  “People said that I was probably in town meeting with men, since I couldn’t account for my whereabouts. Pra-ji added fuel to the rumours; I’m sure of it. If he convinced people that I was that kind of girl, nobody would listen to my side of things.”

  I thought of the servant girl. “Do you think that’s what happened to Rani?”

  Ma nodded. “That’s why she wanted to know where my mother was. I thought she was being nosy, but she was just trying to warn me. I can’t imagine what her life was like living with that beast.” She shuddered. Ma swept the back of her hand across her cheeks. The tears left a shiny path on her skin. “Your Auntie thinks I don’t deserve to have my jewellery returned because of what happened that day. She says my mistake cost them everything, and the jewellery was just on loan from Nani-ji anyway.”

  We sat there for a long time in silence. Ma craned her neck to look at the clock outside and sprang from her chair when she realised it was time to start cooking dinner. She paced the kitchen for a minute before she opened the door of the fridge. The details of her story began to flood my mind. I could see her now as she was when she was 15, scared and confused. I remembered how anger had choked her voice that day we left the temple. She couldn’t just let Fat Auntie get away with taking her jewellery. There had to be some way to get it back.

  “Maybe Fat Auntie will listen to your side of things if you call her on a good day,” I suggested.

  Ma shook her head. “In all the years I’ve known your Fat Auntie, I’ve never seen her on a good day. I don’t think she’s capable of being generous.” I opened my mouth to protest but Ma silenced me. “That’s enough, Pin,” she said sternly, and I had to drop the subject. I watched closely as she pulled out the ingredients for dinner. Anise seeds; cardamom and red chilli powder; meat and potatoes; rice and crunchy long beans. Ma was still thinking. She could not forget so easily.

  • • •

  Chinese New Year was in two weeks and the city was lit in red. Bloated lanterns hung from the streetlights and fabric dragons danced as the light February breeze rippled through their spines. Daddy and I sat down on Saturday morning at the hawker centre to draw the neighbourhood, but I couldn’t do it. To draw Singapore during Chinese New Year, you needed red, pink and gold. You had to include the music—high-pitched and punctuated with clashing cymbals and echoing drums—that blasted from the convenience stores on the path opposite the hawker centre.

  “I can’t do it,” I told Daddy, pushing my paper back to him. He was too busy concentrating to look up. He didn’t believe in colour when he drew and claimed that all the colours he needed were shades of black, white and grey.

  “Done,” he said. “Nice?”

  I nodded, even though the scene looked a bit depressing to me. He had drawn the block across the street, where lanterns of different shapes and sizes dangled in the corridors. “You can keep it and colour it in if you want,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, folding up the drawing.

  “You’re thinking about something,” Daddy noted. “Tell?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Have any more ghosts been bothering you?”

  “No.” The figure at the window had not come back and I was convinced that it had all just been my imagination. At night, the lanterns in our corridor sometimes swayed with the wind and made odd shadows on the opposite walls.

  “How’s school going?” Daddy asked.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Mrs Paraswati, right?”

  “Parasuram.”

  “Is she a good teacher?”

  I made a face. “She gives too much homework,” I complained.

  “Every teacher gives too much homework. It’s better for you though. Think about how smart you’ll be at the end of the year. Even smarter than the girls in the other classes who don’t have Mrs Parasurna.”

  “Parasuram!” I was exasperated. Daddy was terrible with names.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I have a new friend at school. Kristen. Her birthday’s on the same day as Chinese New Year this year and she told me she’s having a party. She just moved here from America.”

  “That’s nice,” Daddy said. “I’ve always wanted to go there. When I win the lottery, we’ll go.”

  “If you win,” I corrected him. “You don’t know if you ever will.”

  “When,” Daddy said firmly. He started drawing again, pressing his pen hard down into the paper. There was a small child at the next table with his mother feeding him spoonfuls of rice porridge. He clapped, wiggled about and sometimes turned his head when his mother tried to slip the spoon into his mouth. The porridge was all over his cheeks and on the collar of his T-shirt. Daddy attempted to draw him. His bold strokes did not quite match the boy’s thin head of straight hair or his small nose, eyes and mouth. But it was early in the day when Daddy was most confident. I decided to stop arguing that he was wrong.

  Kristen handed out her invitations the following Monday. The chatter in our classroom was so loud that Mrs Parasuram had to threaten to take marks off our weekly spelling and dictation test before we settled down. Nobody wanted to score poorly for spelling and dictation. That week, there were words like “pandemonium” and “dilapidated”. Elaine Lee and I had quizzed each other on the bus until I was sure even Auntie Honey knew the words by heart, even though her English was not nearly good enough.

  Kristen wrote me a note on the edge of her science exercise book. “Remember to wear red!” I gave her a quick, confident nod but my mind raced. Did I own anything red? I had pink clothes, but they were all either too childish or not formal enough for a party.

  During recess, a group of girls gathered around our table to talk about the party. When Farizah got up to buy a drink, Kristen’s eyes followed her. She waited until Farizah was out of earshot, then she told the other girls that she hoped we could all wear similar cheongsams. “It doesn’t have to be the exact same one,” she said generously. “But my mom says we’d all look really nice in a photograph together if we all wore short red cheongsams with black shoes.”

  I looked at Farizah now, who was queuing at the drinks stall. Every girl in the class had been invited, including her. “I don’t think Farizah can wear a short dress.”

  “But Sofia Rahman is also Muslim and she says she’ll do it,” Kristen said.

  “Yeah, but Farizah is…different. She’ll probably wear a long skirt or she’ll wear pants.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have invited her then,” Kristen said. I looked at the other girls for sympathy but they were smirking as well. Not many people understood Farizah and even fewer wanted to try.

  “She probably won’t come anyway,” I said quickly. “She won’t eat from plates that have touched pork.” This was true. Back when we were in Primary Three, there had been a birthday party at Alison Chu’s house and she had invited the whole class. The potato curry puffs, peanut pancakes and keropok had all been served on Alison’s mother’s best porcelain platters. Farizah had refused to eat anything. She had said that it was a sin for her to eat from a plate that had ever touched pork. There were two other Muslim girls at the party and they had argued that it was okay. “The food is halal,” they had assured her. “It doesn’t matter if the plate has touched pork as long as the food itself didn’t touch pork.” Farizah had quietly refused.

  “That’s weird,” Kristen said. She made an ugly face that made the other girls laugh. I joined in; my laugh sounded forced and I felt the girls’ eyes on me, testing to see if I
was on their side or not. Farizah wasn’t around anyway. I decided that she was weird sometimes and instantly, the laugh became lighter.

  “But you’re definitely coming to my party though, right?” Kristen asked me later as we queued up to go back to class.

  “Definitely,” I said, giving her my most convincing smile. I didn’t want to look different from the other girls and risk being spoken about behind my back, but a red cheongsam would be costly, especially now that most of Singapore was doing their New Year shopping. Ma would definitely consider it a waste of money to buy a dress just for one party—I knew this without even asking her. Daddy would probably say the same thing but in a nicer way.

  At Assembly a few days later, Mrs D’Cruz gave yet another talk about God and money. “During the Lunar New Year celebrations, we receive red packets from our relatives in the hopes that they will contain a lot of money. God wants you to prosper, not just in your wallets, but also in your hearts. If you are thankful for your gifts, you will offer them to God. In return, he will make your gifts grow.” With that, the school prefects took their cue to distribute red envelopes. They looked a lot like Chinese New Year red packets with gold trim and pictures of delicate branches with pink leaves and plump oranges hanging from them. But close to the seal was the name of our school in gold lettering.

  Still stretching her lips into a strained smile, Mrs D’Cruz explained that the school was building a new chapel where the old art building used to be. She said that the construction of the new chapel depended on donation money, then she mentioned the names of a few parents who had already written large cheques. “We don’t expect you to donate large amounts, but do think about putting in some of your pocket money for a good cause. Think of how pleased God will be.” Around me, all of the other girls glanced at each other and pulled out their purses. I felt a slim two-dollar note in my pocket and knew that if I gave that up, I wouldn’t have enough money to buy food with for the rest of the day.

  “Aren’t you giving?” Kristen asked me. She folded a green five-dollar note into the envelope and pressed the flap to seal it.

  “I forgot my money today,” I lied. And then it hit me. All of Mrs D’Cruz’s talk about God making our money grow gave me an idea.

  We went back to class after Assembly and our first lesson was social studies. Mrs Parasuram continued her boring lecture on Sir Stamford Raffles. She passed around a picture of his white statue in town, arms crossed, chin up and legs spaced wide apart as if he was trying to chope the entire island. I raised my hand and asked if I could go to the toilet.

  “School will be dismissed in twenty minutes. You can go then,” Mrs Parasuram said. Before she could continue with her lesson, my hand shot up in the air and I waved it around.

  “Yes, Parveen?” she said. Her voice was exasperated.

  “It’s urgent,” I told her. The class tittered. Deborah Ong had said that just before she had diarrhoea and vomited at the same time back in Primary Two.

  “Okay, just go then,” Mrs Parasuram said hurriedly. She must have been informed about Deborah Ong.

  I dug my hand into my desk and shoved the envelope into my pocket. The hallways were quiet except for the occasional raised voices from teachers in the other classrooms. I looked around before I passed the toilets, just in case there were prefects lurking near the stairwell. I didn’t want anyone to tell on me because I wasn’t going to the toilets. I hurried down the stairs and kept close to the walls until I was at the familiar stained-glass windows, then without thinking twice, I slipped into the old chapel.

  A blast of cold air greeted my face and neck and legs as I quickly took a seat on the first bench I saw. There wasn’t a single soul there besides myself. It was darker than I had remembered from the last time I had peeked in. I felt a bit sad for this God, sitting alone in this cold house with no lights. I closed my eyes and immediately my mind conjured up an image of this God. He had long hair that he didn’t bother tying up and tucking into a turban.

  “Hello,” I said. My throat was dry and it came out as a croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. It was a whisper this time.

  Hello. This God’s voice was gentler, almost a girl’s voice. He sounded like the man from the Public Utilities Board who called our house to gently remind us to pay the electric bill.

  “What should I call you?” I asked. I was more confident this time.

  Anything you want, child, He replied. A few nicknames came to mind but I decided to put off calling him anything until I had to.

  “I’m Pin,” I said.

  I know.

  “Do you know my last name?”

  Kaur. You’re Sikh.

  “So is it okay for me to be here?” I asked earnestly.

  He chuckled, not meanly, but it still made me nervous. It reminded me of when Ma had paused during the telling of her story to smile to herself. It was not a happy smile—it was a smile that she used to keep her lips from quivering with anger and saying words she’d regret. It was a smile that she thought would protect me from seeing something bad, but it still scared me. I was afraid that the smile would confuse her and keep her from telling me the truth. In the same way, I was afraid now that God would not be honest with me.

  It’s absolutely fine, He replied. I only realised then that I had been holding my breath while waiting for His answer. A long sigh escaped from my lips and filled the air around me with warmth. I wiggled my way down to the centre of the bench and shut my eyes again, concentrating on what this God looked like. His eyes, I finally decided, were not unlike my God’s eyes—watery and drooping a bit at the corners, like He had just watched a sad movie. His mouth was turned down in the same way. He was skinnier than my God and I thought this might have something to do with the different food they ate. My God lived on greasy fried bread soaked in thick spiced gravies, yellowed vegetables and lumpy yoghurt, so it was no wonder He filled all the space in His picture frame. I vaguely remembered Mrs D’Cruz saying something about bread, and wine and a large farewell feast but besides that, I don’t think this God must have eaten very much. I could see the thin ladder of His ribs through his tanned skin.

  When I opened my eyes, I noticed how long I had been away from class and I got worried. “I have to go back or my teacher will get angry,” I said. I almost told Him that she thought I was in the toilet but if He were a proper God, He probably wouldn’t approve of lying. I fished out the envelope and quickly folded the two-dollar note into it. I licked the seal, pressed it firmly with my thumb and slipped the envelope into the collections box.

  “Help,” I said simply, and I meant that I needed His help for everything. I didn’t feel comfortable talking to my own God because He was still in the storeroom and I was afraid He was still upset. If this God could help my money to grow like Mrs D’Cruz had promised He would, maybe there would be money for me to buy a red or pink dress for Kristen’s party and some left over to give her an ang pow. Maybe Daddy would win the lottery and the bills would be easier to pay and he would have to take on fewer shifts or get an easier job in town. Maybe he could even buy better and more expensive jewellery for Ma one day so she’d forget all about what Fat Auntie and Nani-ji had taken away from her.

  I scrambled out of the chapel into the heat of the late afternoon sun. I held my breath as I rushed back to my seat, worried that Mrs Parasuram would demand to know where I had gone for so long. But she barely paused or noticed as I entered the classroom. She was too occupied with telling stories of how Singapore had transformed from a swamp to a bustling metropolis. Her eyes blazed with excitement, as if she could see the country transforming right before her.

  • • •

  Something happened the next day that made me believe in that new God. It started at recess, when I found a one-dollar coin on the floor under my table in the tuck shop. “Look!” I cried when I caught a glimpse of the gold colour. “I chope it first.”

  Kristen ducked down to look as well. “Wow,” she said. “I’ve never found a one-do
llar coin before. It’s always the one-cent coins on the ground.”

  I put the coin on the table and we both examined it. There was nothing fake about it—it wasn’t one of those chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. In kindergarten, a boy I knew had tried to convince me that the foil was made of real gold, but I didn’t believe him.

  I quickly put the coin in my pocket and Kristen went back to sipping her iced winter melon tea. “You’re not going to share it?” she asked in her smiley way that meant she wouldn’t be angry if I said no. I felt guilty anyway.

  “I can’t,” I said, but I could not bring myself to explain. “Sorry,” I mumbled, rising from the table. Kristen paired her chopsticks together and began twisting her thin bee hoon noodles around. A puff of steam rushed forth and quickly brought beads of sweat to the space between her nose and her top lip.

  The warning bell rang as I was standing up and Kristen began to eat frantically. Soup splashed onto the table, making us both giggle. In a flash, she seemed to forget about the one-dollar coin and I was glad because I didn’t want to have to explain what it was for.

  As the day went on, I became less and less sure that the new God had anything to do with the money I had found. After all, it was only one dollar—what could that buy me? I could get a plate of noodles from school or a hot cup of Milo with some change. In her speeches, the principal always said that God gave plenty when people were needy. I was not starving. I only needed a dress. I thought about Ma and Nani-ji counting their last cents to buy onions and salt in their kampong, and I suddenly felt very guilty. But I really wanted to match the other girls at Kristen’s party.

  During after-recess prayers, I joined in as they said the “Our Father” prayer. I knew all the words by heart from having had to listen to it all these years, and I kept my head down so nobody would see me and wonder why I was praying to a different God all of a sudden. I prayed hard, my eyes squeezed shut and my hands clasped so hard that they were sticky with sweat afterwards.