When a Flower Dies

by Josephine Chia

  Yes, Mak, we can’t stay here, your grandpa said to her. But we don’t have to go and live in the flat if you don’t want to. I can find us a house where you would be more comfortable. I’m a full-fledged doctor now. I’ve paid up all the loans. Maybe we can find somewhere close to the sea so you can still smell the sea…. They’re not developing the coasts near Punggol, Seletar or Sembawang yet. We can go and look for a house there and I can make a down payment. Or we can rent somewhere first to let you get used to a new area, Mak…

  “I was so grateful to your grandfather for giving my mother the alternative.

  That would be much better than being in an HDB flat, my mother said in facile agreement. Why don’t we do that? Rent a house first until we know if we like the area enough to put down our roots…

  “But her tone was listless, as if she didn’t care one way or another. It was worrying. I knew she was as deeply unhappy as all of us were. She seemed distracted, not knowing what to pack, what to throw. She shook her head in disapproval every time we found a house for her to view. We couldn’t find any houses right by the sea, as our home was. The closest we could get to the sea was in the north, near Sembawang, which cost a lot even to rent. And even then we could not get a view of the sea or hear the waves. Only little Anthony was excited about the move, dashing into different rooms to choose his room when we went house hunting. To be honest, my heart was not in it either.

  “George was in despair, knowing that the final day was looming and we still couldn’t find a place that would make any of us happy.”

  Mak, I am sorry to push you but we have to make a decision soon…

  But… my mother said, her voice tinged with sorrow, then pleading. But what if Hock Chye comes back? He won’t be able to find us…

  “Nearly twenty years on and she was still harbouring such a futile hope. It shocked both George and myself. We had seen your great-grandmother on the verandah many times of course, looking out to sea, but as the years passed, we thought she was simply enjoying the view, not realising that she was scanning the seascape for a sighting of a familiar boat and figure.

  Mak…

  “I think your grandpa knew that I was going to tell my mother that it was illogical to think that my father would return, so he put a hand on my arm to stop me from saying it. Logic has no place in the storm of an emotion.

  “In the end, George had to decide for us, and he put down a deposit to rent one of those black-and-white colonial houses that used to accommodate the British officers at the Sembawang naval base. It wasn’t large, probably one that was used by a junior officer, but at least it had a small garden and windows we could open. What he had hoped would convince my mother was that the house was supported on concrete pillars so that it was similar to a house on stilts in that the house was raised, and there was space underneath. This type of houses, built on the fringes of forests and jungle, were elevated to prevent snakes and other wildlife from entering the house easily. I was so proud of your grandpa. He had been very thoughtful to find somewhere for us to live in, that was a reasonable substitute for something we were familiar with.

  You are a good son-in-law, my mother said.

  That’s because you’re a wonderful mother-in-law, George said. I will never forget how you and Pansy supported me through medical school. As I said before I’ll always be in your debt and will do everything possible to repay your kindness…

  You don’t owe me anything, she smiled for the first time since we were told about the evacuation. You’ve made my daughter happy and that’s enough for me. And you’ve given me a lovely grandson. I am also aware that you’ve included me in your lives, so that I’m never lonely. Don’t think I didn’t notice…

  So you will move with us then, Mak?

  Yes. I will take Hock Chye’s spirit-tablet so that he will move with us too.

  “The government was not ruthless; there was concern about the soon-to-be-displaced people. They sent people to explain the huge exodus to us. Compensation was meted out according to the size of each villager’s house, the plot of land, the number and type of fruit trees there were: fifty cents for a coconut tree, one dollar for a mango tree and so forth. But there was no compensation for flowering shrubs or herbs. My mother had spent years cultivating her garden so that it would yield the flowers for her bunga rampay, the herbs for her cooking and nasi ulam, healing plants for her potions.

  “I agonised with my mother as I watched her walk through her garden, bending over to touch a plant or smell a flower, living things which her own hands had seeded and nurtured into healthy growth. Her face was pinched and she looked as if she was desperately trying to commit everything to memory as she bade them goodbye. If we moved to a house with a garden, we could salvage one or two plants but not all.”

  Bad news, Pak Abdul said to the fishermen. The PSA has said they will charge each man five hundred to nine hundred dollars to sink your sampan for you.

  “The PSA was the Port of Singapore Authority. Firstly, the thought of having their sampans sunk was painful to the fishermen. It was not just their tool of trade but was part of their way of life. Secondly, the price to do it was a ridiculous amount, at a time when rent for a house was less than fifteen dollars per month and nasi lemak cost ten cents per packet. The sum would eat into a large chunk of the fisherfolk’s earnings, especially when these were not much to start with, as they had to sell their catch of fish at wholesale prices to distributors, hawkers and stallholders from the markets.

  F*** their mothers’ c****! several men mouthed the expletives in Malay.

  “It was bad enough that they had to change their entire lifestyle with little compensation for the move, and less still for the loss of their livelihood—now they were told they had to pay for getting rid of their boats! The fishermen spoke in irate tones. The air was blue. Pak Abdul had to let the men vent their spleen, so he made the women cover their ears and shooed the children out of earshot.

  “Your grandfather was furious.

  Typical bloody morons! he fumed about the PSA officers. Don’t these people have even an ounce of humanity? Can’t they see how traumatic all this is for the villagers? Do they have to add insult to injury?

  “As the majority of the fishermen were uneducated, they did not know how to appeal for their cause. So George went to the PSA and kicked up a fuss, tried to barge through the doors of government offices, including the MP’s. He waited for hours and got nowhere. He wrote out a petition and tried to get his colleagues in the hospital to sign it.

  Be careful, George, his colleagues warned him, afraid to lend their clout to the petition though they sympathised with the fishermen’s plight. This is a government that will not brook any dissent. You’ve heard of political adversaries who have been put behind bars with no recourse to trial.

  George, Pak Abdul said with a worried voice. You have a family. Don’t jeopardise their welfare. Let the matter drop. We cannot fight the authorities…

  We prefer to burn our own boats then pay for them to be sunk by the bastards… the fishermen said to Pak Abdul after they held their own meeting.

  “This was what the English called Hobson’s choice; neither choice was palatable.

  Yes, I agree. We will show them that we are man enough to carry out this enforced atrocity. Let’s all have one final evening together of feasting before we do the deed, said Pak Abdul. We will never be the same community ever again. Let us try to be merry, for it will be our last memory of our life together. Besides the food, the women can prepare the bunga rampay and make garlands of flowers, which we will throw into the sea as tribute for our way of life that is now going to become extinct… His voice broke.

  “All of us had to rouse ourselves from the weight of our sorrow over the pending separation from each other, the destruction of our homes, and the move into alien territory. We spent all week preparing the feast. In a way this was good as it prevented us from grieving prematurely. The Malay women prepared the ketupat, using coconut leaves f
rom our own trees, which would soon be uprooted. They weaved the leaves into small boxes to fill with uncooked rice to boil till it became a compressed rice cake. Some of them made roti jala, a light crepe that looked like its eponymous name, a net. Others prepared all the unsold fish from the final catch. The Indian women made chapatis and curries. My mother made her famous nasi ulam. I prepared the bunga rampay, knowing with a heavy heart that this was the last time I would be able to pick flowers from our own garden, which was soon to be uprooted. I worried about my beautiful butterflies. Where would they go?

  “Your grandfather refused to let things be. He used the hospital’s telephone to call the press of the different language papers.

  You have to come and witness the sacrilege. These poor fishermen are being ousted from their homes and their livelihood and they even have to burn their own boats. Come and take pictures and splash them all over the front pages for the world to see.

  “That evening, we sat on straw mats for our kenduri, a Malay feast. Food was served in a traditional style on giant aluminium platters, so that each platter had enough servings for four people. This was the old-fashioned way of partaking food at weddings and ceremonial occasions so that four people could eat together in convivial company, talking face to face with one another. This was the kind of camaraderie that would disappear with the eradication of our villages. Your grandpa was heartened to see the turnout of several journalists and photographers from the various major language newspapers. We invited them to eat with us. We thanked them for their courage to report our plight. We didn’t expect the situation to be reversed, but we did expect to be treated with better understanding and with humanity; and we wanted the world to appreciate our grief. The reporters scribbled furiously on their writing pads. All of us, except the visitors who asked for forks and spoons, ate with our fingers. The food was delicious as usual, but our tongues tasted the acrid bitterness of our plight.

  “As the sun was setting, Pak Abdul announced with gravity, It is time.

  “The fishermen had lined up their sampans on the shore, boats which had provided them with their livelihood; tinder and straw were already heaped into them. All the women and children stood at the water’s edge, my mother and me included, standing in preparation with our floral garlands and baskets of bunga rampay. The fishermen bravely doused the straw with kerosene. As they set light to their boats, silent tears ran runnels down their brown cheeks. The sight of grown men weeping caused others to weep too. Quickly, the men pushed the lighted sampans out to sea. The blazes lit up the darkening evening. Many hearts cracked. Flashbulbs from the photographers’ cameras flashed repeatedly. We flung the floral garlands and tossed handfuls of bunga rampay after the boats. The waves took the scattered petals and garlands, tossing them hither and thither; some came back to us on the shore, as if they were unwilling to depart. We watched till we could not see anything but the red and orange flames engulfing the wooden crafts out at sea.

  “Would you believe that not one single photo or article appeared in any newspaper the next day? Or the day after. Not one. Your grandfather was livid. He ranted and raved. His colleagues at the hospital told him to calm down, but he wouldn’t. He made more phone calls and wrote to the English newspaper, but his letter was not printed. It had been a life-changing event for us but was a non-event to non-kampong society. That was the final insult.

  “But worse was to come.

  “The final day of reckoning arrived, and lorries came to move us and our belongings to our new homes. The exodus was on a massive scale. The village transformed from a thriving coastal village to a ghost village with immediate effect—intact, wholesome attap houses on stilts suddenly standing empty as if their souls had been sucked out by some wandering jinn or demon. Many fishing nets and tackle still hung over verandahs and fences, the wooden racks for drying fish already looking forlorn and neglected. We knew that elsewhere in Kampong Mata Ikan, Kampong Ayer Gemuruh, Kampong Padang Terbakar and other coastal kampongs, the same sad drama was unfolding. We moved with leaden feet, our hearts too full with emotion to speak. My only consolation was that we were not moving into an HDB flat. I was grateful to George.

  “But at the last minute, Pak Abdul refused to budge.

  This is the land of my people, he said with great dignity. This was where they have lived for centuries. I want to die here amongst their ashes.

  Pak Abdul, you have to leave! Maniam told him. We have no choice!

  I do have a choice, Pak Abdul said. I won’t let others decide my fate for me. My choice is to remain here till I die.

  Oh dear, oh dear, everyone muttered. What are we to do with him?

  “Maniam reasoned, You cannot stay, the inspectors have given clearance. They think the houses are empty!

  I will stay with him, my mother said. Until we can get him to move.

  Yes, we will stay too, said several of the men, persuading their wives and children to go first, promising to follow.

  “Your grandfather and I had no alternative but to leave them temporarily, so that we could take Anthony with us and go with the movers to settle our belongings in our new accommodation. If I had known what was going to happen, I wouldn’t have left my mother to spend her last night on her own. We spent a restless few hours, unable to sleep because we were worried and there was no sound of the waves to lull us into the land of dreams. As soon as it was dawn, we hastily returned to our village.

  “The bulldozers and excavators were already there. The giant group of mechanical monsters rumbled and moved menacingly towards the houses on stilts. The men who had stayed behind flung stones at them. But the stones merely clunked on the body of the machines and slid off ineffectively.

  Pergi! Pergi! Go! Go! Get lost! You no-good thieves! Stealing our lives and our livelihoods! The men spouted in fury though they knew that the drivers of the machines were only pawns and had little choice, just like them.

  “Ignoring them, the monsters surged forward and rammed into the spindly legs of the wooden houses, which buckled and knelt for a few minutes on the sandy beach, as if in disbelief at the assault, before toppling over in defeat.

  Wait! Wait! your grandpa George shouted. There are people still in there!

  Mak! Pak Abdul, I shouted. Where are you?

  “But we were obviously not heard. Then we saw them, two figures looking small against the bulk of the machines. The roar of the machines must have awakened them, and they were coming down the stairs, Pak Abdul from his house, my mother from ours.

  Stop! Pak Abdul shouted, flailing his arms.

  Stop! George shouted, leaping up and down to catch the attention of the drivers.

  “Obviously the driver of the excavator nearest to Pak Abdul neither heard nor saw the people, as he was high up in his cab, the roar of the engine loud, the mechanical claw stretched out in front of him. Pak Abdul was right in the stride of the wheels. I saw my mother rushing forward, trying to pull Pak Abdul away. Both George and I ran in desperate lunges towards them to yank them to safety. But before we could reach them, the gigantic jaws opened and exposed their metal teeth. The teeth clamped shut, closing their mouths around Pak Abdul and my mother…”

  Chapter 10

  Goldie cannot help herself. As her grandmother is relating the story, she sobs and blows her nose repeatedly, her shoulders shaking. Amazingly, her grandmother is dry-eyed, as if all her weeping had been done a hundred times before, and now there are no tears left to cry. When she is less engaged with her own feelings, Goldie notices that her grandmother is sitting far too still, arms hugging herself, and yet she doesn’t seem to be present, as if she is ensconced far away, in that other period of her life. With a shock, she realises that a perceptible change has come over Pansy, as if one of Harry Potter’s dementors had sucked out part of her life force. Her grandmother looks deflated, the face and body suddenly sunken, as if the vitality has drained out of her in the process of the story spilling out.

  “Grandma, are you all right?” Goldie ask
s softly, so as not to shock her.

  Pansy raises her glazed eyes and seems not to recognise her.

  “Mak?” Pansy says. “Thank goodness you’re all right.”

  Goldie holds and rubs her grandmother’s hands, which seem to have gone gravely cold, though the sun has not gone down yet, and is still throwing glints of silver on the rippling surface of the Bedok River. Her heart contracts at the lightness of Pansy’s hands, the skin papery and mottled with age spots. Goldie gently rubs warmth back into her grandmother’s hands. Slowly the action revives Pansy somewhat and brings her back to the present.

  “Where am I?” she asks, her voice frail. “I feel so tired…”

  “Come on, grandma, let me take you home.”

  The family is out again for dinner, this time at a restaurant which serves local delights, laksa, char kway teow, mee goreng, satay and various others, though Pansy is not with them.

  “Dad, it’s scary the way grandma switches from being here to being in another time zone. I think grandma is losing it, you know,” Goldie announces. “Sometimes she thinks I’m her mother! Did you hear about Cho Cho’s and Pak Abdul’s deaths? So gruesome!”

  “What? You? Looking like our elegant great-grandmother, with your spiky hairdo, and studs in your earlobes? Your jeans and manly shirt?” Andie laughs. “I don’t think women in the 50s would have looked even remotely like you.”

  “Be careful ah, your grandmother’s mind is koyak already. Don’t believe everything that old woman says,” Emily says sharply, pointing her chopsticks at Goldie, her mouth, loaded with char kway teow, exposed for all to see.

  “Don’t worry, we’ve already made an appointment for her to see Dr Kwa,” Anthony assures Goldie, ignoring Andie. “They do say that people with dementia live more and more in the past, and vacillate between forgetfulness and lucid moments. Talking about my grandmother, Kim Guek… she was a beautiful and elegant lady; always in her sarong kebaya, looking so feminine. Now that you mentioned it, Goldie, your features do have a striking resemblance to my grandmother’s. If your hair was softer and longer, it would definitely improve the likeness…”