The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  But it came at a price. You can imagine what was said behind Peng Choon’s back – ‘There goes the henpecked husband, poor fellow’ – which is why, even in the Nyonya-Baba community, where chin-chuoh marriages were known, they became uncommon.

  Once the solution had been agreed, a ring of fiery gold, set with a heavy sparkling diamond, arrived at our house. In return, my parents sent over a silver ring on which a large stone of pure green jade sat. These gifts sealed our contract, after which Mother took charge, as she had always done. Things became a blur. I would wake up every morning to be given instructions for the day and would then set about my tasks as if they were all unreal. I sewed and embroidered; made artificial roses for decoration; shaped petals from coloured crêpe paper, thin wires and silk; did beadwork for the tops of slippers; stitched dragons and phoenixes; and helped with my own trousseau, putting together the bajus, sarongs and petticoats I would wear.

  In those days time stood still. Life was suspended between two worlds: one I hadn’t yet left, the other I hadn’t quite entered. I was anxious about the things to come and constantly wondered what would take place on my wedding night. How would I know what to do? It occurred to me to ask Mother again, but for once I felt too shy. I so wished I could have talked then to my childhood friend Hooi Peng. If only she had married closer to home.

  Throughout, Mother ran in and out like a mare untethered. She swirled in different directions, one minute looking at my bridal chamber, the next shrieking that we hadn’t enough tableware and she would have to go to the shops again. Mother went shopping every day. She never came back empty-handed; there was always something: a brand-new bed she had ordered, or materials for bedspreads, bedcovers and pillowcases, or beautiful pieces of jewellery meant for my husband and me.

  One day Mother brought home a familiar-looking woman whom I had noticed around Penang but had never spoken to. Introducing her as See Nee Ee, Mother announced that she would be the mistress of ceremonies at my wedding.

  On the few occasions when I had seen See Nee Ee, I was struck by her poise. She didn’t have a beautiful face, but she was elegant and carried herself with grace. Her neck, long and fair, was like a swan’s. See Nee Ee dressed simply the day she first visited our house: in a light blue baju, and beneath that a patterned black sarong. Lines showed on her forehead, yet when she walked in I looked up, my attention caught by her confident tone.

  See Nee Ee didn’t say much after we were introduced. She just looked at me with kindness in her eyes. Taking my hands in hers, she told me not to worry. ‘I will be here to guide you,’ she said. I put down my portable embroidery frame. Engrossed in stitching peacocks at the time, I did not pay See Nee Ee the attention I should have. I only had a vague idea then about the role of the mistress of ceremonies. There had been mistresses of ceremonies at my sisters’ weddings, but I was needed in the kitchen and did not know how much these women were involved in determining what would and would not happen.

  In the following weeks See Nee Ee visited our house many times to confer with Mother. They would chat over coffee, chewing betel nut leaves and laughing. With the date of my wedding already settled, I could not imagine what more there would be to discuss. I pestered Mother with questions – ‘Mother, you two talk about what? How come still so much to talk?’ – until Mother pushed me away, telling me to leave such matters to those with experience.

  Three days before the wedding, red cloth was put up over the front doorway of our house. I stood on the five-foot way outside, staring at the cloth and tapestry just above it. The tapestry was one I had seen many times suspended over other doorways, and yet as I looked up it held new meaning. The silk tassels which dangled from its borders waved in the breeze. I can still see the characters, beautifully embroidered in golden thread: the symbols for prosperity, wealth and longevity that Father had pointed out to me. As I looked up, my heart was full, because I knew that the gods and the world around us were being exhorted on my behalf. Finally it was my wedding those symbols proclaimed. They made the doorway on Ah Kwee Street look both familiar and strangely foreign, as if, with the tapestry hanging overhead, the house had ceased to be part of my life.

  Soon after, Mother’s friends arrived. They congregated in the kitchen, where they cackled uproariously; sounds of chop, chop, chopping and frying could be heard, and wonderful aromas filled the air. Large earthen pots of tempting pickles called achar appeared; there were achar awak and achar fish and achar prawn, all cooked under Mother’s supreme direction and sprinkled with sesame seeds to finish.

  While the cooking was being done, See Nee Ee came to our house. This time she asked to see me alone. She looked as elegant as ever, walking slowly in her pristine cotton baju, her back straight and head held high. We went into my room, and she calmly told me she wanted to talk about what would happen on the wedding eve and day itself. She said all this with a knowing look in her eyes. I realised at once that I had found my answer. See Nee Ee, who knew everything there was to know about weddings and marriage, would reveal to me the mysteries of the night.

  On the day before my wedding, See Nee Ee came to our house at noon to help me dress. The guests, who could turn up any time after three, had not arrived, but already I was feeling spent and weary. Having tossed and turned through the night, I had slept only fitfully. Like a sampan caught in a storm, I was overwhelmed; excited, because I would soon be leading a household, but apprehensive also, wondering how much independence I would have. Would this Wong Peng Choon let me run the house, as was the tradition among Nyonyas? Or would he expect me to be a subservient Chinese wife? I knew my husband-to-be wanted a son. What if I failed in that regard? Would he take a mistress in Malaya?

  As soon as See Nee Ee entered, she saw the unease in my eyes and sensed the trembling in my bones. She asked gently, ‘Chye Hoon, have you had anything to eat?’ I shook my head. The hired chefs for the day had been making a cacophony in the kitchen since early that morning, and our house smelt of spices and steaming soups, but I had not been able to swallow a thing. See Nee Ee fed me a bowl of soup before helping with my toilette. If it hadn’t been for her, I would have been overwhelmed during those anxious hours.

  By the time we began welcoming guests, no one could have imagined what I had looked like just two hours before. I was wearing a bright new baju I loved. Fastened with diamond-studded brooches at the front, my tunic matched the green Pekalongan sarong Mother had ordered specially from Indonesia, with its hand-drawn motifs of butterflies in yellow and turquoise. I knew I was looking my best, and happily addressed everyone as they entered our house. ‘Sah Koo, Sah Kim,’ I called out to my third maternal uncle and aunt, who were the first to arrive. A few minutes later my eldest paternal uncle and aunt came in. ‘Toa Pek, Toa Mm,’ I said, smiling. The trickle of people soon turned into a stream, and I was continuously occupied. I could tell that our guests were impressed, as much by my dress as by the five gold pins in my hair, studded with pinpricks of stone that glinted in the sunlight.

  The feast followed. It passed quickly and my mind was far away . . . on what would happen later in the night. Shouts intruded into my thoughts and I would glance at my parents, both busy playing host. Sometimes, when someone made a remark to me I mumbled in response. See Nee Ee remained by my side throughout, a tower of authority and silent reassurance.

  After our guests left, the moment I both longed for and dreaded approached.

  At midnight a Chinese oboe sounded, its solemn notes announcing the start of the hair-combing ceremony. The night was quiet. The music floated eerily through the air, making me shiver. I had changed by then and was dressed in a simple loose coat and trousers of cotton, completely in white.

  While the oboe played, I was led by See Nee Ee to the makeshift altar in the main hall. I did everything I was told as if in a trance. She helped me to stand on a rice measure that had been turned upside down. I was given lit incense sticks, which I held in my hands. I bowed many times, first to Thi-Kong, the god of heaven, t
hen to the gods of our family and finally to my ancestors.

  A young boy appeared beside See Nee Ee, who helped sit me down on the rice measure and, with a comb in one hand, began to part my hair. Guided by See Nee Ee, the boy moved the comb in slow, smooth strokes. I felt it as it travelled down one side of my scalp all the way to the tips. At the same time, See Nee Ee uttered a blessing, something about being loved by my husband. For a second time the comb moved downwards while See Nee Ee uttered another incantation. In this way my hair was combed stroke by stroke, blessing after blessing, with See Nee Ee’s voice echoing into the stillness around us.

  Next I was on the red velvet rug, kneeling before my parents, with my hands in front of me in an attitude of worship.

  ‘Now, worship your father,’ See Nee Ee was saying. ‘With sweat and toil he has brought you up and fed you. Show your love and gratitude.’

  And I did, with tears swilling in my eyes. My forehead touched the softness of the velvet repeatedly as I bowed. I thought of how hard Father had worked for all of us, and for me especially. I remembered his acts of kindness, the resignation in his voice that told me he had not enjoyed scolding me. Memories came flooding back: the images of Father’s Adam’s apple merging with shadows across the field I used to play in as a child.

  See Nee Ee held me. She led me slowly to a chair on my right, where Mother was sitting. ‘Now worship your mother, who gave birth to you,’ she told me. At those words tears streamed down my face. I regretted the temper tantrums I had thrown, the acts of waywardness I had forced upon her. I was sorry for biting her arm, sorry we had drifted apart. I longed to apologise but found I could not say a word. I just kept bowing and crying, until See Nee Ee held me up and whispered gently, ‘Enough, enough. You have been a filial daughter. That’s enough now.’

  The next day – the day of my wedding – I woke before dawn. Mother, my sisters and friends of Mother’s who were staying in our house were already up. I could hear the familiar early-morning noises as they went about making breakfast, their quiet laughter just audible.

  I lay in bed, drained. My head was heavy, as if I had been intoxicated the night before. It reminded me of how I had felt once after drinking a cup of Maotai, a popular Chinese liquor, whose potency had put me to sleep. The last thing I wanted was to get married.

  There came a knock on the door. Before I could answer, See Nee Ee strode in. ‘Chye Hoon, how are you?’ she asked. Her tone was brusque, but the kindness was clearly there. I looked at her silently, bleary-eyed. ‘I’m afraid you need to get up,’ she told me. ‘We don’t have much time. We have to feed you and then get you ready.’

  She pulled the covers off my bed and dragged me gently by the hand.

  I followed her downstairs. A dish had been made with the leftovers of yesterday evening’s dinner, and I swallowed a few spoonfuls of the soup. Mother came to my side, looking anxious. She squeezed my hand and, on coming closer, stroked my hair, whispering, ‘This is big day for you, Chye Hoon. Make sure you eat, so you have enough strength.’ Thinking about this later, I realised it was Mother’s way of acknowledging the love I had demonstrated the night before.

  Afterwards, See Nee Ee led me to the bridal chamber. My hair was longer in those days; when it was let down, halfway to my waist, I felt its weight. See Nee Ee anointed my hair with a scented oil, which she combed through in long, deft strokes with a brush. She told me I had wonderful hair – ‘Black as a starless night, strong, but easy to roll.’ It was the first time anyone had given me a compliment, and it made my heart tingle.

  See Nee Ee coiled the last foot of my hair expertly into a chignon at the top of my head, using the diamond-embedded gold pins of the evening before to hold the bun in place. She then twisted and turned the rest of my hair. Not being able to see, I had no idea what she was doing. I smelt wax and felt See Nee Ee’s hands fashioning a shape. When she held a looking glass up for me, I gasped. At the back of my head the mistress of ceremonies had created a spectacular sitting duck – with its tail standing up.

  ‘See Nee Ee, so beautiful,’ I said, wide-eyed.

  ‘Yes, I think so too. That’s all yours – all your hair.’

  ‘The tail won’t fall-ah?’ I asked, worried about spoiling the effect.

  See Nee Ee looked at me and smiled. ‘It’s held up by hair wax. Should stay in place, but you must follow instructions!’ Then with a twinkle in her eye she winked. ‘Wait till you see what’s next! No danger of you running around today, Chye Hoon.’

  And she was not joking. After applying vermillion paper to my lips and charcoal pencil to my eyebrows, See Nee Ee placed ceremonial robes over my body, robes I imagined the empresses of China wore but which I had never dreamt I would put on. There was a richly embroidered red silk skirt, which hung all the way down to my ankles, held up by tapes tied together at the waist. On my top she placed a heavily brocaded jacket with long, loose sleeves. As I put it on, I could see multicoloured threads in gold and silver, red and yellow, outlining fantastic pictures of birds all the way down to my knees. Over my shoulders See Nee Ee draped a cape; leaf-shaped pieces that had been sewn together hung magnificently off it, glowing with the sheen of satin.

  When I began to perspire, See Nee Ee called in a bridesmaid to fan me. She hadn’t yet finished dressing me and asked for patience. ‘You look pretty, Chye Hoon. But I need more time.’

  She continued by placing an elaborate piece of headgear over my head. My head became even heavier, and I could barely see. Styled for Manchu princesses, it had a veil of tiny glass beads and imitation pearls, and the piece was finished with two silk tassels at the back.

  Still See Nee Ee said I wasn’t ready. She put socks and shoes on my feet and jewellery all over me – necklaces, rings, earrings, bracelets and anklets – all bearing down until I was laden as if pregnant with five babies at once.

  It was a miracle I could sit upright at all. When See Nee Ee held a looking glass in front of me, I could not believe what I saw. For the next while I wandered about as if in a dream. I obeyed instructions but was strangely absent. I took small steps forwards and backwards, like a child walking for the first time.

  Just before noon I heard the sound of the oboe, the clash of cymbals, and the beat of gongs. And then firecrackers were let off, the signal that my husband-to-be had arrived. My heart beat wildly.

  See Nee Ee came into the bridal chamber. She went down on her knees, so that her face was directly in front of my veil. ‘Are you ready?’ she asked as she tried to peer into my eyes. I nodded, throat too dry to say a word. See Nee Ee told me to follow her, and I walked slowly down the long staircase. I clung tightly to the hand of the pageboy who had come to help, aware that all eyes were on me.

  I kept my eyes glued to the floor, terrified of stumbling and making a complete fool of myself. I still had not seen my husband-to-be and did not know where he was standing in the hall. See Nee Ee led me to him. As we faced each other, I saw that he too wore traditional garments and had a heavily embellished skirt on, but those were the only details my veil allowed me to see.

  We were led to the family altar, where we were told to kneel. All the while my heart thumped so loudly I was sure that other people, and certainly my bridegroom, could hear it. I was given a handful of incense sticks. On being instructed to worship the gods and our ancestors, I bowed reverently. My hands, holding the incense sticks, trembled. I was saved only because all I had to do was wave the sticks up and down.

  And then we were sent up to the bridal chamber to spend a few minutes with each other. I heard the blood coursing through my head as we walked slowly up the stairs. See Nee Ee came with us. Once we were inside the room, she invited Wong Peng Choon to lift the veil off my face. ‘I will leave you now for a few minutes,’ she announced.

  Through the mists of my veil, I glimpsed the outline of his hands. I could see that he had long, slim fingers. I stood absolutely still, barely breathing. Gently touching the beads at the bottom of my veil, Wong Peng Choon raised it,
and for the first time I looked into the face of my husband.

  PART II:

  THE HAND OF FATE 1899–1910

  7

  In the days when there were genies, a sea captain from Sumatra crossed the Straits of Malacca. He steered his ship up the Perak River to an unknown spot. There, hearing sweet music, the captain stopped. He was at a waterfall, and he saw a flying lizard leap into the air across the water. The sea captain liked the music and told his crew, ‘The name of this river shall be Kinta, because it flows like the sound of tinkling bells. The flying lizard told me so.’

  Immediately afterwards the flying lizard disappeared. The sea captain interpreted this as a sign and said, ‘The Genie of Kinta has transformed himself into a flying lizard. This is a fine place for a settlement.’

  So it was that the Malays first made a settlement along the Kinta River, at a place known as Gunong Cheroh. They built attap huts along the river, planted orchards and earned their living by fishing, farming and panning the riverbed for tin. Before that only the Orang Asli, the indigenous native peoples of Malaya, had been there.

  In a dream the Genie of Kinta told the sea captain that his sons would be the lords of Kinta. Thereafter the sea captain took an Orang Asli wife and began a lineage in which Orang Asli blood flowed.

  By the time my husband and I arrived, the settlement – already known as Ipoh – had become a bustling town. The Kinta District was turning into the principal tin-producing region of Perak, and Ipoh, as the centre of all mining activity, was humming.

  It was a clear morning when we descended on the town. What stands out in my memory are the hills surrounding Ipoh, which undulated in layer after layer. From afar they loomed like round fluffy creatures, the trees covering them thick as fur. I wanted to hug Ipoh’s hills. As we went closer, I saw the violence nature had wrought: in the patches made bald by rain, where pinkish-white rock glistened; the jagged edges which rose to culminate in sharp peaks; and the protruding scars of badly cut faces. Amidst this havoc was also rugged beauty: in between the deep crevices, years of trickling water had left magnificent clefts, which flowed as if weeping.