When a Flower Dies

by Josephine Chia

  George was mesmerised. It was free and easy; people could tell stories, recite a pantun, or sing. Yusoff plucked his guitar and everyone sang ‘Bengawan Solo’, their voices rising over the sound of the waves. To George’s surprise, Maniam the cowherd, now in his chequered sarong, got up to dance around the fire, arms raised in the air, head swivelling his neck in the way of Indian folk dancing, as the others clapped in rhythm. Lalitha, an Indian girl with bells around her ankles got up to join him, though she was more graceful, moving her feet so that the bells jingled in merry abundance. Several villagers joined them.

  The older folk nodded approvingly, whispering amongst themselves, when they saw Hamsur approach Khatijah, Ismail’s widow, and invited her to dance. At first they thought she was going to refuse, but then Khatijah stood up, brushed down her baju kurong and started doing the ronggeng with him, a Malay and Peranakan folk dance that allowed the couple to exchange glances, but did not include their bodies touching. Everyone clapped. They were happy to see her smile again.

  “I’m repeating myself, but I have never encountered such community spirit,” George said. “People on my street hardly know or speak to each other!”

  “It’s called gotong royong—community spirit. People living in kampongs can rise above their daily hardship and deprivations,” Kim Guek said. “We don’t focus on what we don’t have. We focus on what we do have. The crucial thing is to learn to live in the spirit of joy.”

  “Ya-ya,” Pak Abdul said. “Money cannot buy joy. You have to express it from your heart, be in touch with nature. Be in touch with your soul. Sadly, our way of life cannot be sustained and will soon vanish.”

  “Don’t say that,” said George. “We can keep the kampong spirit alive.”

  “People want progress,” Pak Abdul said in a subdued voice, as if he was clairvoyant. “To most, progress means better living conditions, better facilities. The city will encroach on our doorstep and rural folks will become modern city dwellers, concerned with themselves rather than with the community.”

  “Pansy, sing a song, sing a song,” the children chorused.

  George looked at her in encouragement.

  “Okay, everyone join in, as you all know this pantun,” Pansy said, stepping into the circle of light. “After I recite the first line, everyone must clap and say, Rat-A-Tat-Tat. Second line, Rat-A-Tat-Tat. Then again after the fourth line.”

  “Okay Pansy,” the children shouted in unison.

  Kalau ada jarum patah…

  (If there’s a broken needle...)

  Pansy’s voice was clear and melodious. George felt a lump in his throat.

  Everyone went, “Rat-A-Tat-Tat…”

  Jangan di-simpan dalam peti…

  (Don’t keep it in a box...)

  “Rat-A-Tat-Tat…”

  Kalau ada kata yang salah, jangan di-simpan dalam hati…

  (If a word is spoken wrongly, don’t keep it in your heart...)

  “Rat-A-Tat-Tat…”

  Everyone applauded, George the loudest and the longest. Then Pansy said, “Now, children! It’s your turn to sing the lines and the rest of us will all sing, Rat-A-Tat-Tat…”

  The children gathered in a group, some shyly at first. Pansy conducted with her hands and arms and the children sang in one voice. The villagers applauded and asked for an encore, but this time it was to be in English. Pansy had a short discussion with the children and she drew two of Khatijah’s youngsters, Nurul and Ahmed, out into the open and gave them a small pail.

  “Ready? Okay kids!” Pansy said, after she explained the sketch to the villagers in Malay, then to Nurul and Ahmed, “Action!”

  “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water…” The children lisped in highly-accented English.

  Nurul and Ahmed walked hand in hand as if up a hill.

  “Jack fell down and broke his crown...” At this juncture, Ahmed dropped the pail and fell to the ground in a mock fall. The villagers laughed.

  “And Jill came tumbling after,” Nurul tumbled.

  The villagers gave them a standing ovation, clapping uproariously.

  When George saw Pansy surrounded by the children and the way she was talking to them, George knew that he wanted her to be the mother of his children.

  It was the day of the coronation celebration. Saturday, 6 June 1953. The whole country was in a celebratory mood. The coronation had already taken place on Wednesday, 3 June. This would give time for the large film reels, which recorded the filming of the coronation, to be flown out of England to the many countries still under British rule, so that the British abroad and their subjects could view the ceremonies. The elite would watch the coronation in private sumptuous rooms, but the majority of people in Singapore would see the film as part of the British Pathe News, a feature that preceded a movie that was screened in the cinema.

  Generally, the villagers often watched films outdoors, brought by the film-man, in their courtyard, seated on makeshift benches fashioned out of a plank placed on top of two empty kerosene tins, one on each end. The trouble with an outdoor screening was that when it rained, the umbrellas went up and the screen came down; only when the rain stopped, the screen went up and the umbrellas came down. Some evenings this yo-yoing could go on throughout the duration of the movie or until the film-man got fed up and gave up. Pathe News was always followed by a cartoon feature like Bugs Bunny or Sylvester, all this before the main feature came on. The Straits Times newspaper had already published photos of the coronation—Queen Elizabeth in her fairy-tale coach, Queen Elizabeth walking up the aisle of Westminster with her long train sweeping the floor behind her, Queen Elizabeth receiving the crown from the Archbishop of Canterbury, and photos of her with her young family.

  George was so happy to walk side by side with Pansy up the muddy Koh Sek Lim Road towards Changi Road. Not holding hands, of course, though he would have liked to. Pansy had let her hair loose and as she moved, it swung about her shoulders like a rustle of black silk threads. It took all of his strength not to stop and clasp her to him and run his fingers through her hair. She was wearing a pretty kebaya, made of turquoise blue voile held together by a set of kerosang, beautiful, intricate brooches, which teasingly showed glimpses of her camisole underneath. Every time she placed a foot forward, her bare leg stepped through the flap in her sarong and his mind turned cartwheels.

  But they were not on their own. Tradition still ruled.

  Trailing close behind them were Kim Guek and three Malay women, Khatijah, Mak Siti and Mak Boyan. Kim Guek was in a bright turquoise kebaya and matching sarong. The Malay women, normally without any headdress at home, were wearing their selendang, a light pretty veil over their head and the end-piece was slung across one shoulder. Abang Hamsur, not surprisingly, had decided to join them, though he walked with the men, occasionally stealing glances at Khatijah.

  “I think we can look forward to a wedding soon,” Mak Boyan said, making Khatijah blush.

  Pak Abdul also came along with Pak Wan and Che Tokoh. The men were in their going-out baju and brocade sarongs, with smart songkoks on their heads. The eldest of Khatijah’s children, who was eight, and four others from different families ran around them in great excitement. Everyone had heard how much George knew about the arrangements regarding the parade, and they were following him to get the best access to the parade to celebrate the coronation.

  “Thank you for persuading me to come out,” Khatijah said to Kim Guek softly. “We cannot stay anchored to the past forever, can we? I might have to marry again. My five children need a father…”

  “I understand,” Kim Guek said. “Yes. It’s easier said than done though, about letting go. Moving forward is not easy. But I wish you all the best…”

  “You’re still young,” Khatijah said. “I wish you can find someone too.”

  “Is he your future son-in-law?” Mak Boyan broke into their private conversation in a not-so-discreet voice, to Kim Guek, referring to George. “Very good looking. Such a ge
ntleman too.”

  “He’s training to be a doctor,” Kim Guek said proudly. “No time to think about such things yet.”

  George looked at Pansy. She looked back. They both smiled.

  “Last Saturday, on 30 May,” George told everyone, “there was a ceremony at the waterfront when they opened the Queen Elizabeth Walk and Esplanade Gardens.”

  “Wow! When can we go to the Esplanade, Abang George?” The children asked.

  Just as Abdul was addressed in the honorific, Pak or Father, George was addressed as ‘Elder Brother’. Young people were taught to respect anyone older than themselves.

  “We will be going there,” George said, and the children yelped with glee.

  “How do you know so much?” Pak Abdul asked, impressed.

  “My English professor gave me a peek at his programme for the events for the whole week,” George said. “The programme had a beautiful cover, with the words, The Coronation of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, designed in blue, red and white, the colours of the Union Jack. The crown was at the top of the page with the Royal Crests just below. On each side of the programme was a cascade of dark blue velvet theatre-like curtains. At the bottom of the page was a sketch of the Singapore city view with the sails of tongkangs out at sea.”

  “You have such an amazing talent for details,” Pansy said. “For a man.”

  “Details are a matter of life and death for a doctor,” George said.

  “I think we won’t see this kind of thing again in our lifetime, at least not in my lifetime. Change is already in the air…” Pak Abdul said whilst they walked.

  “How do you mean?” George asked.

  “The British Empire and all that. It will have to end. Countries under British rule are asking for independence. It won’t be long before we follow in India’s footsteps. We want a free Malaya.”

  “Yes,” Pak Wan said. “The orang putih have been too high-handed. Look what they’re doing up-country, destroying traditional villages to create new villages just because they suspect that the kampong folks are supplying the communists in the jungle with food.”

  “And don’t forget the Maria Hertogh riots three years ago,” Che Tokoh said. “The child was brought up as a Muslim. And yet the colonial government decreed that she should be returned to her Christian Dutch mother, who was the one to give her up for adoption to her Malay foster mother in the first place.”

  “I remember the riots,” George said. “But I thought that the riot was a protest by the Malays against forcing the girl to hide in a convent and then returning her to her Christian family…”

  “It started off like that,” said Pak Wan. “But there was a bigger issue. The girl’s situation was just the trigger. People were tired of the iron-fisted hand of the colonial government. They want our rubber and our tin but they treat us as if we are imbeciles.”

  George became thoughtful. At university, some of his fellow students were already talking about an independent Malaya. It seemed such a far-fetched dream. But right now, George was more concerned about his dream of marrying Pansy. It was time to talk to his parents.

  Throngs of people had turned out for the parade. It was a lovely day, not too warm, though the sun was shining, and it was not raining. Festivities had already begun on 30 May, to put people in a festive mood. It started with a children’s party at Government House. Many activities were planned and carried out for the population throughout the week, such as concerts and school rallies. Free meals were provided in various hospital grounds, and religious communities followed suit and gave out food. There were exhibitions about the twenty-seven-year-old queen and her family, and free film shows. The West Yorkshire Regiment 1st Battalion Band and Drums played a splendid beating of the retreat, and the illuminated flying boats of the Royal Air Force Sunderland dropped spectacular flares over Singapore. All the celebrations were going to culminate on this very day.

  George took everyone to the new Queen Elizabeth Walk with its Victorian balustrades all along the newly-paved walkway, the waves slapping the concrete wall, the air heavy with salt. Kim Guek and Pansy were enthralled by the Esplanade Gardens, smitten by the variety of plants and flowers and the way they were landscaped artfully.

  “Mak, look at this,” Pansy pointed out the jasmine bush, then a hibiscus, then a rose. “Aren’t they pretty? Oh, I wish Sister Catherine could have seen this.”

  After that George guided them to Connaught Drive, to a spot in front of the Padang, where they would have a good view of the parade. The Union Jack was flying high in the breeze and the coloured buntings were fluttering and waving happily.

  “I’ve memorised every detail of you,” George whispered to Pansy, reviving the earlier conversation. “Since this is a memorable occasion, I feel it’s the right time to ask. I know it is soon but I can’t wait. Will you marry me? I don’t think I can go through university in my state of mind. I feel like I will explode.”

  “You want to marry me? I’d always thought I was such a tomboy that nobody would want to marry me,” Pansy echoed her mother’s admonition.

  Just as Pansy started to speak, the British military band also started up, loud and brassy. George saw Pansy open her mouth but couldn’t hear what Pansy said.

  “What did you say? What did you say?” he asked.

  “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves…” The band played, as the troop marched smartly in their resplendent uniforms. Crowds of people pressed into Pansy and George to get a better view and the moment of intimacy burst like a bubble.

  “You must be out of your mind,” George’s mother, Chan Tua Siah said in English. “Number one, you’re only twenty years old. Number two, you’re still studying. Number three, she’s from a kampong, for God’s sake. Can’t you find a girlfriend who’s from university and of the same social status as you?”

  “Mum…”

  “Son,” Chan Hor Nang, his father, said. “Don’t jeopardise your future. If you need sexual release, I will take you somewhere.”

  “What nonsense are you talking about?” Tua Siah said. “He’s a good boy. Don’t you corrupt him with your stupid ideas.”

  “Tua Siah…”

  “I love her,” George said. “I have found joy with my soul mate. Why wait?”

  “Such foolish talk! You are our only son, George. There is no way that you’re going to marry this girl. I forbid it! You are entirely dependent on us. Without our support, you’ll never become a doctor. We will disown you. Do you want to throw all that away? And for what? What will you do? Become a fisherman?” Tua Siah shrieked. “Do you want to drag this family’s name and status down into the slums? Do you want your sisters’ marriage prospects to be ruined by your behaviour? There is no way that I’m going to give you permission to marry a gold-digging peasant. I’m telling you, I absolutely forbid it!”

  “Mum, why are you jumping to such conclusions?” George said, exasperated. “You haven’t even met her!”

  “Well, I don’t intend to! Look at all these beautiful girls here,” Tua Siah said, flipping through the glossy society magazine. “Daughters of hotel empire owners, businessmen, MPs. These are the kind of girls who will advance your career and social standing. Not good enough for you or what? What for marry someone with no fortune, no social status, no future! What can it bring you?”

  “Happiness?” suggested George wryly.

  Chapter 7

  It is May 2014. If she were still in England, Pansy knows she could enjoy one of the loveliest times of the year, when the clocks have already gone forward, making the days last longer. It is such a delight to sit outdoors or take walks in the light evenings. The promise of summer is just round the corner and there is anticipation of warmer sunshine, the return of migratory birds and bursts of colour. The pansies, which come in various hues, would be out.

  “Pansies—a sure sign of spring. You are my heart’s ease,” George had said every spring, reiterating one of the meanings of her name. “I shall love you forever.”

>   Now, the only place for her to see a fresh growth of pansies here in Singapore is in the Flower Dome, a small cluster of some yellow and deep blue ones, looking a bit forlorn to be so far away from home. It’s the little things that remind Pansy of George, and make her regret her loss anew. But what is disturbing her lately is that she is beginning to lose the memory of the timbre of his voice. How did he sound when he said that? Did he inflect on the word ‘spring’? Or ‘heart’s ease’?

  Pansy tries to remain upbeat. ‘Forever’ gives her hope. The ebb and flow of the seasons remind her that life is a moving cycle. Nothing is static or permanent. What appears to be the death of plants and trees in winter is in reality only a period of rest and renewal. We see the bodily demise of a person and believe him to be conclusively dead, only because we do not have the capacity to see where the essential living part of him has gone. It is our limitation that makes us unable to see the bigger picture. The body becomes a corpse only because its real essence has left. The body is only a vehicle that carries the essential part of our being. It is not the driver.

  Pansy is convinced of all these and is certain she will be reunited with George and her parents. Perhaps she has got into this frame of mind because it is Vesak day, a celebration of the Buddha’s birth, enlightenment and transcendence. In Singapore, the auspicious occasion is a public holiday, to give Buddhists time to go to the temples to reflect, worship and perform various rituals. Pansy’s temple is in nature.

  In this region, there are no seasons to break up the monotony of the year. The equal days and nights give a certain reassurance, yet this unremitting routineness and predictability is also stifling. Like laws that keep the country safe and prosperous but straitjacket creativity and passion. Nearby, the Indonesians are burning their rain forests to plant the more lucrative oil palms. The fires blow a grey pall over Singapore, its fine soot making people sneeze, cough and gag, its thin film coating the tops of cars, toilet bowls, sinks and shelves. Seeds of future respiratory disorders are insidiously planted. It gets so bad that people have to wear face-masks. There is a continual display of the PSI reading on television, an indication of the Pollutant Standards Index to show the level of pollution in the air. Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong has sent a delegation to Indonesia to try to assist the Indonesians in remedying the situation.