The Woman Who Breathed Two Worlds

by Siak Chin Yoke, Selina

  A string of well-wishers came to our house, including Siew Lan, who spent hours cooing over the little Choong Meng. My friend was delighted by my grandson. Her large eyes, around which fine lines had formed, sparkled as she played with his tiny toes. ‘Ai-yahh . . . so cute . . . so cute,’ she kept repeating. When we finally sat down on the barlay, Siew Lan had a store of compliments for me too. ‘Even more weight, Chye Hoon!’ she exclaimed, indicating my girth with her hands. Seeing the horror on my face, my friend broke into a smile. ‘Only little bit-lah! Good for you, you know!’

  I sighed. ‘What to do?’ I said in a half whisper. I had noticed the weight gain myself. Though my figure had always been of the stout variety, the five miles I’d had to walk six days a week every week during the lean years had kept expansion in check. Once the bicycle became part of our business, though, there was no concealing my increasingly comfortable life. The change took place gradually: the thickening of both arms; the way tiny rolls of skin began to hang off; the tightening of the sarongs around my waist. Ultimately it was the mirror from which I could not hide, for the face reflected back at me was no longer oval but a tenuous circle, with a generous chin to boot.

  I was getting old. I said this aloud to my friend, but Siew Lan shook her head vigorously. ‘No-lah! You have many years left.’

  ‘No, my friend,’ I told her. ‘My children already leave home. First Hui Fang, now Weng Yu.’

  We talked then about my eldest son, who was largely absent during those months, his head buried in mounds of books. Every afternoon he stayed behind at school so that he could revise in the library, which he said was quieter than our house. My son’s ambition surprised and pleased me; I had never seen him so focused and was secretly delighted by this dedication and diligence. In the last two months before his examinations, even his Saturday outings to the cinema were suspended. This brought howls of protest from Hui Ying, who told her brother that he needed to take a break every now and then – ‘The brain must rest,’ she would say – to no avail.

  ‘I have to study,’ Weng Yu insisted. ‘It’s my only chance.’ Eventually my second son, Weng Koon, then nearly sixteen and already the cheekiest of the boys, offered to take his brother’s place until the examinations were over.

  These took place over a two-week period in December 1920. Weng Yu walked around like a madman in that fortnight, with eyes blazing in concentration and jaws so taut that I worried he would crack his teeth. There were moments when the tension inside our house became unbearable. Arranging our meals around Weng Yu’s revision schedule, I strictly forbade the others from making any noise. Every one of us felt as if we too would enter that sombre examination hall with Weng Yu to sweat over long lists of befuddling questions.

  I prepared Weng Yu’s favourite dishes to celebrate the end of his last examination, but when my son returned home he was so fatigued he went straight to bed. For the next month we breathed again. After that, anxiety crept in, because we knew it would not be long until the results were announced, in March.

  That year – 1921 – Weng Yu was named one of the top scholars in the state of Perak. He passed his examinations with such flying colours that he was mentioned in the local newspapers. He gained distinctions in five subjects, some of which I hadn’t even heard of until he began his revision. I knew about English language and mathematics and English history but was amazed when Weng Yu told me he was studying art and drawing. ‘You can study art?’ I asked, incredulous.

  ‘Oh yes, Mama!’ Weng Yu replied enthusiastically. From the way he shook his head up and down, I suspected that my son was probably good at drawing – another dubious talent, for what worse way could there be to earn money? As for geography, which I had never heard of either, I made my son explain what the word actually meant. ‘Oh, we learn about crops and weather and terrain,’ he began.

  ‘ “Terrain” is what?’

  ‘You know . . . whether a place is flat or mountainous . . . What crops can grow depends on that sort of thing,’ he replied in his usual airy manner.

  ‘So, is agriculture-ah?’

  ‘No! It’s a study of countries really.’ That description – ‘a study of countries’ – awakened my curiosity, yet as soon as I probed further I was disappointed.

  ‘You learn about which countries?’

  ‘Well . . . England mainly, but other countries too,’ my son said. ‘In Europe, for example. It’s world geography.’ Taking a deep breath, I left it there. I had made a decision to give my boys an English education, and it was too late for regrets. What would come would come.

  When the examination results were announced and I heard that my son’s name was mentioned in the newspapers, the doubts I carried inside my head evaporated. I walked around with a stupid grin on my face, even stopping complete strangers along Lahat Road to tell them about my son’s triumph. We celebrated with absurdly large meals, which Siew Lan and her husband and Meng Seng joined. At the first of these, to Weng Yu’s delight the patriarch presented him with a beautifully wrapped case. Inside was a heavy silver chain looped around a pocket watch, also silver, with a sparkling white face and unusual black lines around its rim. I was told the black lines represented numbers but were written the old-fashioned way, hence they looked different to the squiggles more commonly seen on watches of the time. The watch was so expensive it even had a name, two syllables that sounded like Los-Kof. It was the best pocket watch then available in Ipoh, made in that country Siew Lan had once told me about, the one that was like China, with its mountains and lakes.

  Amidst the celebrations I never lost sight of the fact that I would soon have to say goodbye to my little prince. Time marched forward relentlessly, hastening the day when my eldest son would leave for unknown shores.

  Our farewell was simple. Holding Weng Yu close for as many minutes as I could, I whispered a goodbye into his ear before wiping away my tears. I was surprised by how sad my son looked. I had only expected excitement on his face, not the dark bags under his deep-set eyes or the harrowed air which fell across his cheeks, dampening the dimples that were his and his father’s hallmarks. Meng Seng and Wai Man had kindly agreed to drive ten people to Penang, but with my business to run and the other children to care for, I could not spare the days away. That at least was what I told everyone. I had other reasons too, feelings I could not speak about. As soon as the departing parties left in their two cars, I went into the inner hall to stand before the tablets, where I released my sadness in front of our ancestors, my husband and Kuan Yin.

  For hours no matter how many tears I shed, more followed. The silence in the house oppressed me. Whenever I recalled images of my son, I started to cry, no matter what the actual memory was. I forgave his waywardness, his fascination with a white actress, even his insolence. I would have gladly taken him back with open arms if that had been possible.

  When I had exhausted my tears, I sat alone near an open window. I did the same the next day, watching the storm that unfurled in the afternoon. The skies darkened ominously. Everything – from the trees shivering in the wind to the smell in the air, with its tinge of dampness, and the rustle all around, like the noise of air being sucked in – told us to expect rain, lots of it. Soon flashes of light were seen, followed by the roar of clapping thunder. Eventually the heavens opened and the rain started to beat down, drops as large as pellets lashing hard on the streets outside.

  It poured as it had not poured for many months, flooding the sun-seared valleys of the Kinta District. The land itself, acres of open plain surrounded by green furry hills, seemed to invite the rain and the wind. These rolled in relentlessly, gathering in fury as they churned into the fierce thunderstorms for which Ipoh was famous.

  When I rushed to close a window, I saw a streak of lightning tear across the sky, the type of rushing flash whose ferocity you feel in your bones. I saw it high in the skies above the plain. The light moved at a giddy pace, crackling in the air, and the accompanying drum roll echoed back and forth from the limesto
ne hills.

  When it was over, the sun shone once again. A rainbow rose up, a perfect band with strips of red, yellow and purple, arching magnificently over the hills of Ipoh.

  PART IV:

  UNCHARTED TERRITORY SEPTEMBER 1921–1930

  34

  It was Siew Lan who told me the story of the mine, a small pit in a godforsaken corner outside Ipoh town. She had heard the tale from Se-Too-Wat, who in turn learnt it from friends at the Ipoh Club.

  The concession had once belonged to a white devil, a man with flowing red hair and beard who, on discovering he was short of the funds he needed, offered his prize to another white man. Those were pessimistic days, because the ending of war in Europe, which we initially heralded, had brought little joy to our territory. Our jubilation plummeted, along with demand for rubber and tin. Coolies once again poured into Ipoh town, so that when the concession in this distant spot came up, no one had the nerve to make the necessary investment. A Chinese group eventually took it over. Instead of prospecting for tin themselves, however, they left the hard business of working the land to an old woman, a widow to whom no one gave a second’s thought.

  She was reputedly already fifty, this Chinese woman whose skin was a shell baked brown by the Malayan sun. Her back was curved from years of stooping over a changkol, but everyone who knew her spoke of her incredible strength and how she could be prevailed on to work like an ox. Just five years previously the woman had wailed over the mutilated body of her husband, a mining coolie who had the misfortune of falling from one of the rickety ladders Peng Choon once told me about. After her husband passed away, the widow, who already knew much about tin, joined the throngs being hired as small-time panhandlers. Naturally when the opportunity came up at this neglected mine, she seized it. The widow could not read and write, but she was wise. Wary of being cheated, she hired a Chinese lawyer, who advised her to seal the contract with her thumbprint.

  When it came to finding those precious black lumps, the widow turned out more adept, and perhaps more persistent, than the men before her. Working the mine with a small group of coolies, many of whom were women, she managed to eke out a living.

  Digging late one afternoon, the woman hit a vein of black stone. The stone she found had all the qualities she was seeking: hard, lumpy and streaked with white crystals. Only there were more white crystals than she had ever imagined. Using bare hands at first and then a changkol, she began digging furiously; the harder she dug, the more of the black stone she found. Fate rewarded her determination. By the end of the day the woman and her helpers had filled more tubs than they were able to carry home.

  Her discovery came at a critical time, for her lease was due to expire within the week. The next day the widow presented herself at the offices of the Chinese syndicate to ask for an extension of her lease. Alas, news of her find had spread overnight; despite heartfelt pleas, the syndicate refused the widow’s request.

  But the woman did not give up. She organised shifts to work the land day and night for the entire week until her lease expired, so that none of what she’d found would be stolen from under her nose. Together the woman and her helpers dug up tin said to be worth eighty thousand dollars. Being a generous soul, the widow shared the loot with her helpers. Despite that, she was able to retire comfortably.

  Rumour had it that she had moved to Penang, where she was waited on hand and foot inside a grand house.

  No sooner had the woman been banished from the land whose wealth she had uncovered than the land itself dried up. No matter what they did, the men who followed were unable to find any more of the black stuff. Within months the mine closed down, but the tale of the poor widow continued to spread, giving hope to the multitudes then seeking shelter beneath the Hugh Low Bridge. From their rubbish-infested hovels beside the Kinta River, they could not imagine ever scraping together enough for a passage back to China or India.

  I was in a more fortunate position, but the tale of the poor widow had allure even for me. I thought often of the woman, of her kindness and most especially her tenacity. I was to recall the widow’s story many times in the next few years, when my spirit was ravaged. I had to remind myself that any trial, no matter how difficult, could be overcome.

  Within days it was my eldest daughter, Hui Fang, who occupied my waking moments. When she, her husband and the children returned from Penang, where they had seen Weng Yu off, our house came alive again. Everyone talked excitedly all at once. My second daughter, Hui Ying, who babbled on about what she had seen, made me smile. She marvelled at the size of Weng Yu’s ship: ‘As high as a two-storey shophouse, Mama, and as long as forty shophouses joined together!’ She talked about a huge temple they had visited, a white edifice with a golden roof set high on a hill, from where they had glimpsed the distant sea. It was the same temple Mother had once described in a tone of reverence. ‘You must go and see it, Mama!’ Hui Ying told me, so enthusiastically that my eyes flicked across the room, where they were unwittingly drawn towards her elder sister beside her.

  For the first time I noticed how gaunt my eldest daughter looked. Hui Fang’s eyes were those of a cadaver and her cheeks appeared sunken, the skin textured like a Chinese plum in the early stages of drying. When I went to bed, I was convinced the shadows across my daughter’s face had nothing to do with the twilight streaking our inner hall.

  As soon as an opportunity came, I knocked on Hui Fang’s door. It was a lovely Malayan morning, all blue skies and sunshine, with not a cloud to be seen. Light streamed in through the open windows, bathing Hui Fang’s room in warmth. She sat perched on the pedestal that had once been the bridal bed, nursing her son.

  I smiled, waiting for the awkward silence to pass. On the wall outside I heard the frantic pecks and twittering of long-tailed swifts assembling a nest. Soon enough my eldest daughter began to speak – about my parents. ‘Kong-Kong and Po-Po very frail, Mama, so thin, I also shocked. I scared . . . I not know . . . They maybe sick, Mama.’

  Her words reminded me how I too had wanted to travel to Penang. I longed to see Mother, but it had seemed prudent to remain at home, because my head was in such a mess, my heart even more so. The sight of my little prince stepping on to his ship would have been more than I could bear. I had contented myself with sending Mother our packages of food, replete with chilli and coconut and the smells of love.

  I nodded sadly, knowing I would have to brace myself for the day which would eventually come. Meanwhile here was my daughter, with a boil inside her heart. Trying to coax it out, I said, ‘You last night very quiet, Hui Fang.’

  At this my daughter turned away, keeping her eyes near the hollow of her nose as she watched baby Choong Meng nibble at a nipple. A single touch was all it took; as soon as she felt my hand, Hui Fang began to cry.

  ‘I think . . .’

  Seeing that my daughter could barely get the words out, I folded her into my arms. Hui Fang’s breath on the sleeves of my baju brought back memories. This was the way we had once been, my eldest daughter and I, a long time ago.

  When Hui Fang lifted her head, I patted her eyes dry with the handkerchief I always carried inside the folds of my baju.

  ‘I think . . . I no good wife, Mama,’ my daughter blurted out, making my head pound. A flame flared up inside me.

  ‘Ai-yahh! Why you like that say? Wai Man tell you-ah?’

  Hui Fang shook her head. ‘Then . . . you where get that idea?’ Searching my daughter’s eyes, I saw that they were empty, drained of spirit.

  ‘I think . . . he have . . . he have . . . mistress.’ The words seemed to choke her. Outside, the long-tailed swifts on the wall squealed, breaking into the peace of morning.

  ‘Why you think that?’ I whispered, my mouth dry.

  Hui Fang told me about Wai Man’s outstation trips. He went often, sometimes coming home with a cloying smell on his clothes, an odour Hui Fang immediately associated with another woman. The trips had begun while she was halfway through her pregnancy and increased thereaft
er. Worryingly they had no savings. It was her husband who controlled their money. He gave her enough for food and other expenses, but there was never anything left over. When she challenged him on where his salary went, he brushed her off with vague explanations, telling her about this, that and the other, disjointed bits which failed to answer her question. There were moments she feared she was imagining things, when she thought she was simply going mad, but then the fragrance would invade her house again, this smell of cloves and lemon she knew wasn’t hers.

  When she finished, I felt a burning in the pit of my stomach. My son-in-law seemed such an unlikely candidate for infidelity. I could barely imagine him charming a woman, let alone cheating, and yet my daughter’s story had the ring of truth. I could see that Hui Fang knew it too from the wretchedness written all over her face.

  ‘Daughter,’ I said as I held her hand, ‘I need to think what to do. Remember you here always have home . . . always.’

  Throughout the day I had to fight an intense urge to run to Siew Lan’s house. I was bursting with feeling and unable to make sense of the random thoughts flying into my head. Kuan Yin seemed of no help. In front of her porcelain image it was my daughter’s hollow eyes I saw, and when I shook joss-sticks in the air, all I did was to chase shadows. By mid-afternoon I could no longer contain myself. I set off for the English quarter in a rickshaw.

  When I arrived at Siew Lan’s, the sight that greeted me so took my breath away that I forgot the very thing which had seemed pressing just moments before. For there was my friend, standing not in her usual baju but in a frilly Western dress similar to the one worn by Weng Yu’s favourite actress. The dress was loose and sleeveless, pulled in at the waist and with a skirt which reached near the knee. A gasp escaped my lips.

  ‘You do what, Siew Lan?’ I asked in alarm. ‘You also go modern-ah?’