When a Flower Dies

by Josephine Chia

  What was that poem of Wordsworth’s about butterflies? Oh, her brain is useless now.

  The sand yields to Pansy’s feet: warm sand, not quite as white as the sand of the expunged coast, but it is still fine. The sand at Kampong Tepi Laut and neighbouring villages had been so fine that it was quarried to be made into glass. That’s right! Oh, how nice that she has remembered something! The sand near her village had been used for making glass! Only wealthy homes had windows with glass. Sheet glass and panes were so expensive that kampong houses could not afford them and had to make do with wooden shutters instead. Ah, it’s good that she has remembered something which she didn’t know she had forgotten. Maybe her brain is not so bad after all. She relishes in the thought and the sensation of grainy sand under her feet and in between her toes. It’s a rare pleasure for her to feel such soft sand these days. Only when the tide was low could she feel such softness of sand under her feet on the shores of Bracklesham Bay. Usually, the soles of her feet had to endure and crunch painfully on a huge, sloping mattress of pebbles on her way to the sea and back, pebbles in different stages of erosion but nearly all smoothed by the waves and time. She is grateful for small things and kneels at the water margin.

  “Take these to George please,” she whispers, kissing the flowers, then slipping them into the moving water, sending a tribute to her beloved. She knows they will never get there, but she has to believe they can.

  Creaking back into an upright posture, Pansy reminds herself to up her dosage of Evening Primrose capsules, to massage her legs at night with the essential oils of lavender.

  Flowers can be so healing. But she knows that the human body has its own sell-by-date, and that it will gradually break down before its last surrender. She prays George will wait for her on the other side, to lead her into her new life. No matter how fit she had kept herself with her walks and her ministrations of herbs, nature has taken its toll. Already her skin lacks the lustre of youth, pigmentation forming blotches on her face, arms and legs, the harsh tropical sun making them worse. Knowing that her body is only an instrument of her soul and that she would be reunited with George in the afterlife gives her enduring comfort. She does not follow any faith, yet has an intrinsic belief that there is something greater. She can understand why people tend to turn to religion, especially in their old age. To fall into an abyss of nothingness must be frightening. What is the purpose of life if there is no afterlife?

  Pansy stands in the surf for a while, luxuriating in her feet being bathed, taking in the view. On her far right, the iconic building of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel Resort stands proudly—three separate wide towers looking as if they are supporting a giant, concrete surf board that holds up the world’s first sky-park and swimming pool at its top. The curved white ribs of the Gardens by the Bay are also visible, like the bleached bones of a pre-historic animal. In their foreground is the giant Ferris wheel, the Singapore Flyer, proclaimed to be taller than the London Eye. All these are planted on reclaimed land, like the patch of earth she is standing on. She has indeed returned to a country that has sprouted new limbs and become softer, more open, with a new prime minister at its helm.

  Pansy spreads out her arms as if to embrace sea and sky. The casuarina, banyan and palm trees observe her silently. She must look weird to others, this aged woman looking as if she’s performing some ancient ritual, face tilted upward and arms open. It is in this position that she is presented with a glorious view of the birds. They fly out of and over the tree tops into open space. They’re larger than ordinary birds, so Pansy’s breath catches. Why, these are birds of prey! How wonderful! Wildlife. There is something special about seeing birds and animals in the wild, to see them enjoying being themselves and free, especially in this highly urbanised city state. Perhaps we lust after freedom because the human spirit also quests unconsciously for it. Pansy strains to ascertain what kind of birds they are. Looking at their distinctive colours, the reddish-brown plumage with white heads and chests, they look like… yes, they are! Brahminy Kites! Like the family they come from, they have the eagle’s manner of winging and swooping, as they show off their majesty, their wide wing span and black wing tips arcing against the blue sky. Pansy feels a sense of exhilaration, as if she’s been handed a precious gift.

  “Thank you! Did you send them to me, George?”

  When they finally fly out of sight, Pansy returns with a lighter step to sit on the bench. She clutches her handbag to her tummy to keep it safe, and as support for her forearms. The warmth is making her slightly drowsy, her eyelids are getting heavy. She has not been sleeping well in her new home, so she tires easily. Here at last she has found peace and quiet, shielded from traffic noise from the ECP Expressway by a small grove of trees. The jogging and walking treks are not busy yet, as most Singaporeans prefer to wait for the cool of the late afternoon or evening to walk, jog or exercise.

  The rhythmic sound of the water slapping against the sandy shore lulls her into drowsiness, her eyelids flutter, and her eyes start to close. In her half-consciousness, Pansy has a vague sense that George has come to sit next to her. Trust George to always be looking out for her. He is so dependable, so protective. She knows she can safely doze off if he is there, watching over her. He kisses her forehead, and her face relaxes perceptibly. She smiles without opening her eyes. She knows his kiss from anywhere. Like she knows his every touch, his mannerisms. Even his cough. She swears she could pick him out even in the dark. George stretches his arm out behind her back, so she lets her head loll gently onto his shoulder.

  Chapter 3

  The gentle sea breeze brushed salt traces across Pansy’s lips, tickling her nostrils. Even though she was barely awake, she could sense light streaming through her closed eyelids. Oh, no! She mustn’t be late! Her eyes shot open. Hastily, she threw aside her thin coverlet, leapt out of bed, dashed across the wooden floor in her bare feet and rushed out towards the back of the house.

  “Aiyoh! Tak seronoh sekali! Jalan macham sa-ekor gajah! No delicacy! Walks like an elephant!” her mother admonished, stirring in her own bed. “Especially at this time of the morning. I’m sure our neighbours will hear you stomping on the floor boards lah! Siapa mau kahwin lu? Who wants to marry you? Such a tomboy!”

  At home, they always spoke in their Peranakan patois.

  Nobody could ever accuse Kim Guek of being tomboyish! She was petite and beautiful, and always feminine, in her sarong kebaya, her smile sweetly lifting the corners of her eyes. Even at thirty four, she had the figure of a youthful maiden. Pansy had never acquired her mother’s genteel manner for anything, let alone walking. Even in her sarong kebaya, she walked as if she was in a hurry, whereas Kim Guek’s steps were small and delicate, causing her hips to undulate sensuously.

  Their attap hut on stilts faced the extensive sea at the back—one of a cluster of nipah palm thatched houses on the East Coast. The nipah trees loved moist soil and were often found near mudflats, or in mangrove swamps. There were many varieties of palm trees, and Pansy marvelled at how useful they were. The coconut palm for example, not only provided edible fruit, its dried kernel could be pressed for oil or made into soap, its husk could be made into a brush, its shell into a receptacle, its leaves woven into a basket or mat, and the spine of the leaves made into a broom. So much of nature serves without any expectation of return. Pansy would like to be like that, selfless and of use to others, to someone in particular perhaps, so that her life would acquire a special meaning.

  The nipah leaves, called attap in Malay, were long and wider than coconut leaves, supple enough to be stitched into sheaves, arranged and layered onto roofs in such a way that it kept the heat and rain out but could lift for the breeze to enter and circulate into the house—significant in an era where there was no electricity to generate a fan during the hot months. Theirs was a not a large hut but it had expansive views that gladdened the heart. People who lived on the coast would not dream of living inland if they could help it—the sound of the sea, the twit
tering of birds, the smell of salt and the fresh air were all nectar to their soul. There is a continual flurry of movement by the sea which is not noticeable inland—the constantly moving waves, the wind rustling in the trees, clouds scudding across the open sky, birds scavenging for food, butterflies being playful in flight.

  Pansy ran past the remains of fishing crates, nets, ropes and tackle, still crusted with salt, forlorn reminders of a spent life, which sat on one side of their verandah that wrapped itself around the house. But Pansy knew that Kim Guek had no heart to remove them. Each person grieves in her own time and way; the process cannot be hastened.

  Besides their own village, Kampong Tepi Laut, there were other villages on this same stretch of beach, known for its fine white sand that had attracted Sang Nila Utama to its shores several centuries ago, when it gleamed in a blaze of white. It was he who changed its name from Temasek to Singapura, ‘Lion City’, when he encountered a hairy beast which his courtiers informed him was a singa. The other villages in the same vicinity were Kampong Bedok, Kampong Padang Terbakar and Kampong Mata Ikan, though the latter was further east, nearer to Changi. Their names were all Malay ones, the language of the indigenous people, the orang laut or sea people, who first migrated here from the surrounding islands of the Riau-Lingga Archipelagos.

  Like the Bugis people from Sulawesi, these were seafaring folk, also called orang selat or Straits people, and they had settled along Temasek’s old coastline long before Stamford Raffles recognised the island’s strategic position along the shipping routes between East and West, purchased it from the Temenggong of Johor and claimed it for Great Britain.

  The aboriginal people had lived on long boats or sampan panjang. They had served as warrior rowers in royal shipping fleets for the Temenggongs and Sultans of Malaya and Indonesia, though it was rumoured that some of them had turned to piracy. In the end, when they had given up their nomadic ways, they built houses on stilts along the coast and became fishing folk so that the sea remained an integral part of their lives. Though they were Malays, many of them were not Muslims. Some converted when Arab traders brought Islam to this part of Asia around the twelfth century.

  Some city dwellers in their concrete houses looked down their noses at them, and called these kampong dwellers squatters. The term sounded like a dirty word, bringing with it an image of a ghetto, of people living in squalor. It was true that the majority of the village people were not rich, that rats and mice might wander in from the adjacent farms and wild fields of lallang, that flies, cockroaches and centipedes would lurk in their jambans or outhouses, and emerge from their stoves and from behind cupboards. But the villagers saw wealth in their families, friends and neighbours, and in the countryside and nature. Despite common misconceptions, kampong houses were kept scrupulously clean. Malays, like Peranakans, honoured their home and treated it like an istana or palace, no matter its size or location, whether the floor was mud-packed, timber or marble.

  “No one is so poor that they cannot be clean,” Kim Guek used to say to Pansy. “As long as we have rain water, we can stay clean.”

  Their home was spotless, the floorboards shone. Kim Guek had embroidered pretty lace runners, crocheted antimacassars for the backs of chairs, weaved flowers from crepe paper and cat-gut, and sewed beads onto slippers for sale to the rich Peranakan ladies. As soon as she was old enough, Pansy started helping her mother in the housework and sale of her goods. In the evenings, they worked at their craft, their fingers moving like lightning, their eyes getting teary from the hissing carbide and kerosene lamps, whilst Hock Chye sat on the verandah to mend his nets. The congenial atmosphere would press itself into Pansy’s memory, her parents captured in the amber glow of the lamps, their love for each other warm with quiet joy. And the sea was always there, like a constant and faithful lover, whispering reassuringly outside the windows and under their house.

  “Mesti ada adat. Must have culture and decorum. Without it, one cannot rise above one’s gross behaviour,” Kim Guek had said as they worked. “A real Peranakan lady must be able to do fine embroidery, beading and cook delicious meals.”

  “Your mother would know,” Hock Chye had said to Pansy, looking up from his task at hand and at his wife in admiration. “You must try to be more like your mother.”

  Pansy had rolled her eyes upward. But it was true that Kim Guek’s elegance was unsurpassed. Even the other villagers recognised her graceful ways and marks of good breeding, which suggested that she came from a fine family, probably from Malacca. How she came to live in a fisherman’s hut, nobody knew and nobody asked. Pansy had glimmers of insight, tiny windows which opened to the possibility that her mother might have come from a different environment. But she dismissed them as children do, not imagining that a parent had been anything but a parent, nor had a life before their children knew them. Pansy realised her mother was refined but then she thought that was just her mother’s personality. She would like, however, to excel at the things that were important to Kim Guek, so that her mother would be proud of her. But she could never be as good, her brain too scattered, her mind too much on other things like poetry and adventures beyond the ken of an ordinary girl.

  “Squatters!” Pak Abdul once fumed, when someone read out and translated the item in The Straits Times newspaper to him. He was the penghulu, the village headman, descended from the orang laut. “Orang itu fikir mereka lebih atas! Those people see themselves as Higher Beings! How self-righteous! To us, our kampongs are definitely not squats! Squats suggest filthy, unauthorised makeshift dwellings. This is our chosen way of life, in simple wooden houses that are designed and constructed to fit in with nature, with the trees that surround them; windows and verandahs open to the winds, sea and sky. Who would prefer to live otherwise? Hemmed in by concrete walls? With doors that remain shut except for access, keeping people indoors, like prisons?”

  It was true that even though it was already 1953, their villages still did not have private bathrooms, or indoor taps to provide running water, or electricity, like the privileged folks in town. But this was true for many other kampongs on the island, still dependent on the village well for water, where villagers traipsed to the one stand-pipe for drinking water. Singapore was still largely rural—vegetable, poultry, pig, cattle and fish farms were widespread, like the verdant forests where monkeys, mousedeer, wild boar and pythons still roamed. At night, bats still flew, and some said with trepidation, the pontianak, the female vampire. Stories about the beautiful temptress abounded. Perhaps they were told to intimidate the children and men, to make them stay indoors at night. Apparently the pontianak preyed on men, initially appearing as a beautiful young lady, with the fragrant chempaka flowers threaded in her hair. After the man had been ensnared, she would reveal her true nature—her extensive long claws and crone-like features, and her blood-thirsty tendencies. This was said to be revenge for her origin, when she died at childbirth. Whether she was a myth or not, village folk took the precaution of installing cacti plants with their many thorns up on the rooftops, to ensnare her long hair if she should fly past. Folklore and superstitions abounded in the villages: Never tie a red thread round a banana tree or its spirit will start to scream; don’t hang clothes out at night or your soul will be captured by wandering jinns; bury nail-cuttings and shorn hair or they will serve as conduits for ghosts to possess you. A common practice was to thread red chillies and place onions outside the threshold to bring the rain, and smoking the house with incense at maghrib or sunset to cleanse the house of spirits.

  Pansy raced to the back verandah in the nick of time. The breeze caressed her face, sweeping her long hair back from her nape. She readjusted her sarong that had threatened to come loose in her short flight. She and her mother slept with sarongs tied around their bosoms. Metro, the department store on the High Street, their main shopping precinct, had begun to sell factory-made nightdresses, but the majority of villagers could not afford them, and had to pedal their Singer sewing machines to make their own. How w
ell made an item of clothing turned out to be, rested on the skill of the seamstress. Sometimes kampong children walked around in ill-fitting shirts and baggy shorts, dresses that nipped in the wrong places, knickers that let in the air. Sometimes a woman would buy a bolt of cloth on the cheap at Robinson Petang, the Thieves Market along Sungei Road near Rochor Canal, which parodied the name of the smart store. In such a situation, the whole family—mother, father, sons and daughters—would be dressed in one single pattern of fabric, made worse and incurring mirth from others when the cloth was floral and the boys had to wear it too.

  Pansy gulped in the fresh salty air, her lungs expanding. The sky was already streaked blood orange. In the distance she could see the kelong, an offshore fishing trap, its thicket of skinny legs still in dark silhouette, the small hut perched in the middle, a couple of sampans bobbing up and down the shallow waves near it. If her father had been alive, he too would be out there in his own sampan, hauling in his nets and getting ready to make his way home with his night’s catch, to sell to wholesalers up river in town or on their own beach. But Hock Chye had been claimed by the sea in a fierce storm four years previously during the monsoon, just as Pansy was entering secondary school at the convent.

  If not for the generosity of the English missionary nuns, particularly Sister Catherine, and her mother’s tenacity, her education might have been curtailed by his clipped life. The villagers had nurtured them through the ordeal, bringing in cooked meals on a rota basis, manning their market stall whilst Pansy was at school, all to give Kim Guek time to regenerate herself.