The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  Peng Choon said the hills were made of limestone. I loved looking at them even on that first day.

  In the distance they turned from dark green to a hazy blue, like the waves over the South China Sea of my early years. Someone later told me that Ipoh’s hills eventually become the Blue Mountains, which split Malaya into two. I could believe it. The highest summits stretched lazily towards the heavens, where clouds floated, casting a dreamlike veil over the range.

  On the other hand, my impressions of the town were far from favourable. I found Ipoh chaotic after the orderliness of Penang. Coolies ran everywhere. In some parts attap-roofed houses stood higgledy-piggledy, as if they had sprung up overnight.

  On top of all this was the smell, the ‘Ipoh aroma’ much discussed throughout the district. In the evenings, when vehicles roamed the streets collecting ‘night soil’, strolls were unpleasant affairs, but the stench was even worse during the day, as I discovered first-hand. It was close to noon when we entered the town. After starting our journey on foot, we had caught gharries and rickshaws the rest of the way and arrived in Ipoh at a time when the Malayan heat aided the decomposition of dead animals – the dogs and gamey fish and pole cats – which lay on the sides of streets. Wafts of decaying life mingled with the odours from heaps of rubbish, also unattended.

  ‘Why you bring me here?’ I asked Peng Choon within minutes. The fire must have been apparent in my eyes, because my husband looked sheepish when he told me he thought Ipoh was going to be the future of Malaya. He would one day be proven right, but as I stood surveying the Kuala Kangsar Road, it hardly seemed possible. I had barely set foot in town and already I was desperately missing Penang. I longed for the sea.

  Peng Choon was as handsome as Mother had described. He turned heads everywhere; he certainly turned mine. On our wedding night, as soon as he lifted the veil of my headgear, I saw his dimples, tiny depressions carved into the bottoms of both cheeks. They charmed others too, because even those who barely knew him talked about ‘the man with the dimples’.

  Peng Choon was older when he married me – thirty – but retained a copious head of hair, the strands so black they shone. His lips, thin and malleable, were like a woman’s, while his cheekbones stood out as if they had been carved. He was tall, at nearly five feet eleven inches, with a muscular body he held straight when he walked – ‘A carriage like a prince’s,’ as Mother had said.

  I was pleased Peng Choon had chosen me for his wife, but there were many occasions when I worried he would be tempted elsewhere, especially during that first year. He travelled the length and breadth of the Kinta District, visiting estates all over, inspecting their books and preparing their accounts. Because transportation then was hardly what it is now, he was forced to spend many nights outstation – and I sometimes wondered how he coped. He never gave me cause to worry, but that didn’t stop me from imagining and fretting and wanting to quickly bear him a son before he went about looking for a woman who could.

  When we were first married, I asked Peng Choon why he had picked me. He laughed. He was a man who knew what he wanted: a family run by a strong hand – a healthy woman who could cook, bear him sons and look after the household. He expected to travel and needed an independent wife who would get things done without him.

  So when the matchmaker mentioned me, he immediately became interested. ‘You sure-ah?’ she had asked. ‘This girl has strong will and a temper.’ She told him where we lived, and he had strolled along Ah Kwee Street in the evenings, spying on me now and again. He told me he noticed my lustrous hair, glistening in the light of dusk. He tried to imagine what it would look like hanging down. He said he liked how healthy I appeared as I strode about; I took strong steps yet it was clear I had been well brought up. One morning, when he followed me to the market, he noticed that the stallholders didn’t try to cheat me, as they did other women. That was the day he decided he would marry me.

  All this he told me, and more. In those first lonely months my husband also became my best friend.

  Wong Peng Choon was a Ka-Yin-Chu Hakka from a village in Chiao-Ling County, in the north-east of Kwangtong Province. He came from a family of farmers who lived at the bottom of hills in the countryside. In their village, life had remained unchanged. The air was fresh, and people quenched their thirst by drawing water from wells – spring water that tasted sweet on the tongue. Peng Choon told me he had missed China badly during his early months in Penang. He would think about his village, about how tasty the rice was; he would picture the succulent vegetables, imagine the lusciousness of fruit as it ripened on trees and dream about home.

  But then he remembered why he had left.

  For years, whenever the sui-hak, the recruitment men, came to call, Peng Choon would listen to their tales. They spoke of fabulous lands beyond the South China Seas, places where money could literally be dug from beneath the ground. Peng Choon absorbed these stories and was tempted to follow the sui-hak, not because of what they said but because he yearned to see the world. He looked around his village and tried to imagine what lay over the hills.

  Among the Hakka it is the women who work in the fields, while the men sit in the shade of trees playing the erhu and chatting. I was amazed; I would have hated being in a Hakka family. Fortunately, it wasn’t a life that had appealed to Peng Choon either: as he grew older, he became increasingly restless.

  Being the eldest boy in the family, Peng Choon alone was sent to the village school, where he learnt to read and write and memorise Confucian classics. He was also taught arithmetic, which he very much enjoyed. Peng Choon had a natural ability with figures, which was how he landed his job in Ipoh.

  In all the time that my husband remained in his village, he was given only one task: to sell what the women in his village grew year in and year out at the best possible prices. It was hardly challenging work for an intelligent man, and Peng Choon spent hours reading Confucian classics in the shadows of the hills. At his father’s insistence he married a Hakka girl from the next village, who bore him a son after a year.

  Despite this seemingly idyllic life, Peng Choon became troubled as time passed. On the annual visits of the sui-hak, he saw men leaving, men from his village as well as the surrounding areas, each carrying a bundle under his arm. He watched as they marched towards a new life.

  One night Peng Choon had a dream. A large bird appeared, hovering overhead, pointing its beak as if it were telling him to go forth. When the bird landed, it stood upright, and Peng Choon saw that it was a noble-looking creature with fiery reddish-orange feathers. In his slumber Peng Choon recognised the Vermillion Bird of the South, but when he woke he was engrossed again in his reading and forgot about the dream. The next night the Vermillion Bird of the South appeared once more. This time it spoke. ‘Go to the Nanyang, the South Sea,’ it told Peng Choon. On the second day, when Peng Choon woke up he remembered his dream, but he did nothing with it and told no one. Finally, when the Vermillion Bird of the South appeared for the third night in a row it said to him, ‘You must go to the Nanyang, and do it soon.’ This time Peng Choon revealed to his wife and family what had happened.

  Over the next week much wailing could be heard in the Wong household. While Peng Choon’s parents and wife agonised, offerings were made and the gods duly consulted. On that occasion the gods remained stubbornly silent. Convinced nonetheless by the strength of the apparition, Peng Choon stood firm, telling his family, ‘I have dreamt the same dream for three nights in a row. It is an omen. I must obey.’

  When the sui-hak next came to his village, Peng Choon made preparations to leave. His wife and son bid him a tearful farewell, while he was fearful and excited at the same time. Peng Choon set sail from Swatow in an old junk cramped full of men. It looked rugged on the outside, but once set on the seas the boat was tossed like a toy. Peng Choon thought it would capsize and they would all drown.

  Because he could read and write and spoke Hakka as well as Hokkien, Peng Choon found work easily in Penang.
Within days he was hired by a coconut- and copra-exporting company owned by the Khoo family – as a clerk, to look after its accounts. The Khoo company accounts were kept in both Chinese and English, but Peng Choon didn’t speak English at the time and dealt only with the Chinese accounts. The English accounts, meanwhile, were managed by Baba men who spoke English. As a result Peng Choon became friends with many Baba men and started learning English from them. An impatient student, he read everything he could get his hands on, beginning first with primary school textbooks and thereafter progressing to other books and eventually to newspapers – to the Penang Gazette, just as Father had done.

  His diligence was soon noticed by his boss. Peng Choon was given increasing responsibilities with the company’s books and ledgers. The Khoo family also owned estates in the Federated Malay States. When an opportunity came up in the Kinta District, Peng Choon jumped at the chance.

  At that point he was forced to consider his future. He had been in the Straits Settlements for three years by then; he knew there was no turning back. In deciding to put down roots, he had to find a wife. Not surprisingly, he chose to look for one from within the community most familiar to him in Penang.

  When we met, Peng Choon had already been introduced to Nyonya-Baba culture. He had a natural affinity for the Malay customs we adopted. He adored the colourful baju panjang and sarongs I wore and the quaint phrases I spiced our conversations with, which I often had to spend time explaining. He relished the fiery dishes I put in front of him. Night after night, as we sat down to dinner – he with his chopsticks, and I with my bare hands – he would lick his bowl. I smiled, thrilled at my power to tickle his palate and satisfy his hunger.

  Under my influence Peng Choon learnt to savour dishes he had never tried before. To my surprise he even developed a taste for petai, the stinking green bean unique to South East Asia. Normally stir-fried in a sambal paste, petai is best known for the pungent aroma it leaves in the room – and in latrines afterwards. I love its texture and smell, but petai is an acquired taste. I was amazed my recently arrived Chinese husband took to it.

  Over time we wove ourselves into the fabric of each other’s lives. Our mixed marriage never created difficulties; I could hardly have asked for a better husband. The fears I had before our marriage never came to pass: Peng Choon did not drink or gamble or smoke, and I’m confident he was faithful. Had he taken a woman on the side, I feel sure I would have known.

  As was typical for a Nyonya woman, I was head of our household. Unusually for a Chinese man, Peng Choon had agreed to this arrangement at the outset of our marriage, while we were still living with my family in Penang. Every month, when my husband brought home his income he would hand me the money, and I would store it in a fireproof safe we kept securely locked in one corner of our bedroom. I realised early on that the way I managed our budget would decide what type of food we ate and where we could afford to live once we had our own home.

  For his part my husband worked hard. He would leave our house at seven every morning and return only around six in the evening. The hours in between were painful; the change from our house on Ah Kwee Street came as a shock. There I had always had others for company: Mother or Ah Lai or my sisters. After moving to Ipoh I was alone inside a silent house for hours, and sometimes days, on end.

  I know Peng Choon worried about this, because he often asked how I was. I always told a small lie. He had plenty to cope with in his new job and I didn’t want to add to his list of burdens. In those early months I longed for the hour of his return.

  8

  It did not take long for me to get used to Ipoh. As I became familiar with the town, I understood what my husband meant: things were happening. Within weeks brick-and-mortar buildings had sprung up to replace wooden sheds; tracts of land were cleared where smallholdings of rubber trees and lalang weeds had previously been, and Chinese immigrants poured into town in a never-ending flow, so that the population grew before my very eyes.

  We had not been there long when we ventured out for a good look around town. Heading out of the Chinese quarter, we went first towards the higher ground reserved for English buildings – the area around the Padang, the main playing field, where the white devils liked to congregate. Everything about the Padang looked tidy: the playing field was well tended, its lawn evenly trimmed and the grass a shiny green, as if watered several times each day. Peng Choon told me the Padang had only been created the year before, paid for by members of the Chinese community who wished to commemorate the sixtieth year of the reign of the English queen. There had been equally big celebrations in Penang, but I was engrossed then in wedding preparations and had paid little attention to the festivities. For the first time I heard the queen’s name said in English. Peng Choon made a sound like ‘Beek-toh-lia’; I remember it being difficult to pronounce and meaning little, as I had never seen a picture of her.

  I was impressed by the English quarter, though, with its wide streets and open space. The weather that morning was nearly perfect for a long stroll. Rain had fallen hard the night before. The skies, though overcast, remained clear, and the sun was lurking and threatening to break out, but it was still cool. In the morning air everything smelt crisp and fresh. Water droplets visible on the leaves in the English quarter gave them a bright emerald hue. There were far more trees than buildings. The few buildings were shaded, built of brick and painted completely in white. They looked exalted and grand, even though they were not all public buildings.

  My attention was diverted by a set of houses directly opposite the Padang which stretched across the entire width of the field. Peng Choon told me they formed the Ipoh Club, a place only whites were allowed to enter. He said this bluntly with an undercurrent of animosity that caught me by surprise. Till then I had absorbed Father’s deference towards the British without giving it much thought. They were our rulers, a fact I accepted; we had after all left Siam because of the opportunities brought by the British to the Straits Settlements. But the tone in Peng Choon’s voice stirred memories that must have lain buried inside, for I suddenly recalled the days of my childhood in Songkhla. I remembered things I had heard a long time ago – the sense of brooding resentment in how the whites were discussed: politely, yet not quite as others were talked about, their rule accepted because it was our fate; tolerated, but never fully welcome. After we arrived in Penang, Father’s attitude had shifted to one of complete respect, and I forgot how it had been before.

  Walking around the perimeter of the Padang, I recalled all this as I stared at the Ipoh Club. Its ambience was different from that in the parts of town in which I spent my time, and though everything was perfectly kept, I did not like it. Hardly anyone was around, unlike where we lived, and nothing seemed to be happening. I couldn’t imagine what the whites did inside their sedate buildings.

  Peng Choon told me they drank. He said that unlike everyone else, white devils were allowed to buy alcohol inside their club without paying in cash, so they went about drinking and owing money. Sometimes they would come out on to the field to play ball games. There was a game they especially liked, one Peng Choon had watched in Penang but of which he had been unable to make head or tail. He saw men around a field, one hurling a ball, another trying to hit it with a wooden bat. There was a spurt of running, but most of the time the men stood watching the ball or trying to retrieve it from some extreme corner. A Baba friend had tried to explain the rules, of which there were many, but Peng Choon had given up. It was too complicated and rather boring, as matches went on for days. Who else but whites could find so much time?

  We continued walking. We went everywhere that morning, very much enjoying each other’s company. I remember feeling young, light-headed – a feeling that hadn’t touched me since my days in Songkhla. As we ambled along, I looked at Peng Choon many times and glowed. I was so proud of being seen with him. There were times in those early days when I still couldn’t quite believe he was my husband.

  That morning I was dressed in
the delicate red baju panjang and Pekalongan sarong I had worn on the eve of my wedding, while Peng Choon had on a pair of baggy trousers and a white Mandarin jacket with wide, loose sleeves. Over his head he wore a dark Chinese cloth cap, but you could tell he didn’t have the traditional queue – he told me he’d had it cut off once he made a decision to settle in Penang. It was a symbolic severance of ties. On this, as on other matters, my husband was ahead of time; it was still the fashion then among sinkehs, the recent Chinese immigrants, to wear their hair long, twisted into a braid at the back. I was glad Peng Choon didn’t keep a queue. I thought they looked silly, though he would have been handsome regardless.

  After our circuit around the Padang we turned on to Hugh Low Street. At my insistence we went towards the Kinta River, because I was curious to see what lay on the other side. In those days New Town had not yet been built and there was hardly anything on the other side, but I was not going to be satisfied until I had seen it. Peng Choon went along with the idea just to please me. By then the sun had broken through and the dark clouds had disappeared. My husband opened up the paper umbrella I had brought so that we could continue walking comfortably huddled under its shade.

  After the lush greenness of the English quarter, the contrast in the Chinese part of town was stark. Here the richness of life was on full display. People sat inside coffee shops with legs stretched out on solid wooden chairs, some with knees lifted towards their chins, eating rice with roasted duck and noodles with dumplings, chatting, smoking, laughing and occasionally shouting raucously. Over the backstreets clothes were strung on bamboo poles suspended overhead, one end against the window ledge of a house, the other end resting on the ledge of the house opposite. Every type of garment could be seen: jacket, trousers, skirt, socks, underwear – all exposed to the world. On the ground was noise and merriment, because the theatre on Leech Street was in full swing; it always seemed in full swing whatever the time of night or day.