When a Flower Dies

by Josephine Chia

  “Ha, ha, ha! I can’t imagine dajie with long hair, and looking like a girl,” says Winona, tossing her own long hair in an exaggerated femme fatale manner.

  “Well, I just might show you!” Goldie says, bristling in defiance. “I’m being sent by my company to China to do some auditing for a few months. I might just let my hair grow.”

  “You’ll always be a tomboy,” Emily says, uncharitably. “You can never be as feminine and pretty as your sisters.”

  “Emily!” Anthony barks.

  “Before you go off to China, come for tea and I’ll bake a pie for you,” Pansy says on the telephone. Goldie is pleased to hear her grandmother sounding like her usual self. “Your grandpa used to love the pies I made for him. I’ve also found your Cho Cho’s photograph. I’ll give it to you when you come here. I want you to have it.”

  “That will be lovely, grandma,” Goldie says into the mouthpiece. “Why don’t I come and pick you up on Saturday? I have to come in a taxi as dad has the car. Then we can go and buy the ingredients? That way I can learn what goes into it and you can teach me how to make it too.”

  “You’ve just made my wish come true,” Pansy says, her voice brimming with delight. “I’ve always dreamed of having a daughter who would share the joys of cooking with me. A granddaughter is just as precious.”

  “It’s been my life-long secret wish to learn how to cook properly,” confesses Goldie. “No one in my family knows how. Especially not my mother. She’d probably say I’d be no good at it. It’s just that our modern lifestyle never encourages us to learn any cooking. We have a maid at home who dominates the kitchen and cooks all the meals. Then on her day off, we go out to eat. There is a widespread selection of food out in the hawker centres, plus hip cafes which sell a plethora of Western dishes and desserts, which means this doesn’t give a person the incentive to want to cook. Especially now that Singapore is getting hotter and hotter, it must be uncomfortable in the kitchen. But I still want to try. It will be easier when I get my own flat. The government is now allowing thirty-five year olds to buy a BTO HDB flat.”

  “What’s BTO?”

  “Built-to-order. Buying it from plan. It’s subsidised by the government so it’s affordable. The government had not encouraged young people to live on their own before. But I guess they’re finally keeping up with the times. Like Andie said, if they want women to have babies, they will have to let us do it our way. It’s hard to think of romance and making babies when you’re still living with your parents! No adult in the West would dream of living with their parents the way ours do here.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with living with one’s parents. Your grandpa and I did,” says Pansy. “But I get your point. Oh, by the way, I’ve just received a Pioneer Generation Package. It’s beautifully designed. It’s heartening to know that the government appreciates its old people.”

  “Frankly the whole thing smacks of vote-securing to me.”

  “Now, Goldie, don’t get cynical.”

  “It’s not easy in this social and political climate, grandma. Anyhow, back to cooking. As I said, once I get my own flat, I can do all the things I want to do, like prepare my own meals, more hands-on you know.”

  “Yes,” says Pansy. “Cooking for someone is a way of saying I love you. Asians are not as vocal or demonstrative about expressing their love as Westerners. So we show our love through cooking. My mother used to make foods I enjoyed eating. It is especially poignant when you’re ill and mother is there to care for and minister to you with special foods—moey, herbal soup, ginger pork, sesame chicken—that kind of thing. I still hark back to a simple bowl of Teochew porridge when I’m feeling unwell, perhaps with a bit of salted fish or egg in it. Even in England, your grandpa George used to cook a smashing bowl of moey! He would go up to Chinatown in London just to get me the salted fish or salted egg. That’s like seventy miles away! Probably like from here to Ayer Hitam. Did you know that my village, Kampong Tepi Laut, was famous for the Teochew salted fish that your Cho Cho also made?

  “Anyway, today, we’ll start with an English apple pie. Then, when you are ready, I can teach you some Peranakan dishes. Our culture is also in the eating and cooking of our traditional foods. When our culture is gone, what will be left?”

  “Okay, grandma, I’ll pick you up at 10am.”

  Her grandmother’s words make Goldie think. What is culture all about? Is culture about one’s colour or features, or how one would address one’s parents or grandparents? She has never been concerned before. She is part Peranakan, but how does her life project this inheritance? Is Peranakan culture just about dressing up in a sarong kebaya? Or talking in a Peranakan patois? Or cooking and eating ayam buah keluak and knowing how to make nasi ulam and arranging the bunga rampay? Or is it about knowing how to embroider, or the ability to thread glass beads to sew onto kasut manek? Does culture contribute to who she is? Does it matter?

  After all, this is an era of globalisation where it seems that nearly every young adult moans about their parents, rebels against them and authority, listens to the same songs, watches the same films, updates their Facebook account every few minutes with friends around the world, or tweets, blogs and Skypes on the phone. The realisation hits Goldie.

  My god! We’ve become a uniform sub-species of one tribe!

  Suddenly, the thought of her belonging to this featureless global youth, existing on a diet of part Western values, raised on Western pop and knowing no Asian culture deeply, engaging in impersonal communication through emails, blogs and social media accounts, seems colourless, when her own inherited culture is so rich and vibrant. She sits in front of her dressing table mirror and examines herself. What does she look like for goodness’ sake? She is nothing but an imitation of some Western idea of a hip youngster. Is she having an identity crisis? Or has she purposely created a persona to defy her mother? But who loses out in the end? It’s time she uncovers who she really is. Goldie ruffles her hair to take the spikiness out of it. Then, slowly, she takes out each of the numerous earrings from her ear lobes. Something in Goldie is beginning to bloom.

  “You look lovelier each time I see you,” her grandmother says when Goldie picks her up for their day outing in the taxi. “Something about you has changed.”

  “Oh, I’m not gelling my hair anymore and have taken out all the ear studs,” Goldie beams, her smile brightening up her face.

  “That’s good. A pity to camouflage all that beauty,” Pansy says. “Before we go to the supermarket, let’s go to Katong and measure you out for a sarong kebaya. It’s my treat. By the time you get back from China, the outfit should be ready. We don’t have to disclose this to anyone if you don’t want to. You can still wear your Western clothes every day but at least you have something special for an occasion. I also want to show you where the original Tanjong Katong was when it stretched into the sea.”

  Goldie is vaguely aware that Katong is a district by the East Coast Road, around Joo Chiat Road, which is considered a Peranakan enclave, though she knows it better as a hip place with lots of bars and cafes. As the taxi makes its way there, her grandmother gives her the history. They are dropped off on the corner of Mountbatten Road and Tanjong Katong Road where there is a heritage sign that reads ‘Di Tanjong Katong’—a board, decorated in a Peranakan design, to commemorate where the seaside had been.

  “‘Tanjong’ means a promontory or headland that juts out to sea,” Pansy explains. “This was where the sea used to be. So our famous Peranakan song, ‘Di Tanjong Katong’, refers to the stretch of beach and promenade that used to be here. Close your eyes and imagine you are facing out to the open sea instead of looking at these new multi-million dollar condos. Can you smell the salt air and feel the wind in your hair?”

  “Hmmm. But the noise of the traffic spoils the illusion. Gosh, so much is lost in the name of progress,” says Goldie, with a tone of regret. “People should save something for the future generations. I’m afraid I don’t know the song, grandma. W
ill you sing it to me?”

  So Pansy sings the words:

  Di Tanjong Katong, ayer nya biru

  Di situ tempat-lah jalan jelita…

  (At Tanjong Katong, where the water is blue that’s the place pretty young girls go walking…)

  “Wow! To think we even have our own songs. How rich is that?”

  “Of course, we share such songs with the Malays, just as we share their language. They’ve become our national songs too. You have to attend a Peranakan musical. I’m so glad to see that these days there are so many young producers and playwrights who are putting on Peranakan musicals and plays. They are doing a lot to keep our culture alive. We must see one together when you get back. As a start, you should sign up to join the Peranakan Association. It will put you in touch with all things Peranakan. You’ll receive a beautiful glossy magazine with enriching articles about our way of life. The Association holds an annual convention and ball and meets up with Peranakan Associations from around the world—Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia, Australia and even Canada and UK.”

  “I am shocked that all this is going on in my own country, without my even knowing it. I guess it’s like the proverbial ‘I don’t see what I don’t expect’ syndrome,” says Goldie. “I’m like a bear still hibernating when winter is over.”

  At Katong Shopping Centre, which was one of the first air-conditioned shopping malls in the 1970s, Goldie has to help her grandmother up the flight of stairs from the taxi stand. Pansy’s knees seem to have weakened overnight. Goldie experiences her first feeling of annoyance that many buildings and overhead bridges in Singapore do not take into account old and disabled people. She observes how her grandmother’s health has deteriorated from the day of the outing, as if in passing on her story, she is no longer obliged to stay on in this world and is surrendering her body. It saddens Goldie to think this, especially since they’ve only recently discovered each other more intimately, and because she’s going to be away for some months.

  Her grandmother knows exactly where to go. She enters a shop that sells kebaya fabrics, sarongs, kasut manek and kerosang, all the accoutrements that are required for a full Peranakan outfit. The tailor takes out various bales of embroidered organza fabric in bright colours to put against Goldie’s skin, to see which colour suits her complexion best and brings out her beauty. There are different designs of peacocks, peonies and butterflies. The tailor also brings out the individually prepared embroidered fabric that is enough to make up one kebaya. Her grandmother and the tailor advise Goldie on the benefits of each design and colour. She is deliriously happy to be doing this with her grandmother, something she misses doing with her mother who is always so busy at work.

  “So hor miah. Good life, to have a grown-up granddaughter,” the tailor says.

  “Yes, I am,” Pansy says proudly.

  Goldie smiles and chooses a turquoise fabric with butterflies. She is not to know how significant this choice of colour is going to be.

  “Oh, your great-grandmother used to love turquoise too. And we both love the butterfly design,” Pansy says, glad of her granddaughter’s choice. “I used to cultivate plants and flowers in my garden to attract the butterflies in flocks. I used to say a line from William Wordsworth’s poem about butterflies. How does it go? Oh dear, I’ve forgotten. I’m really old now.”

  “Don’t worry, grandma, you can give me even part of the line and I can google it for you.”

  “Google? What does google mean?”

  “Now for the sarong,” says the tailor.

  “This is the artistic part,” Pansy explains to Goldie. “To make the outfit look like a pleasing ensemble, you must pick out the colour and motif in your kebaya to coordinate with those that are in the sarong, so that they match well.”

  “You’re so lucky to have a pretty granddaughter to carry on our tradition,” the tailor says. “Young people nowadays can’t be bothered, and wear only Western clothes.”

  “Yes, she’s making another of my wishes come true,” says Pansy. “I’ve always longed to have a daughter who would wear the sarong kebaya. I don’t have a daughter but am fortunate to have three granddaughters. At least there’s one who is interested in our culture.”

  “That’s two wishes that have come true for you, grandma. What is the third?”

  “So sad huh? If our culture dies because the younger generation doesn’t care,” the tailor interjected unknowingly.

  “Don’t worry!” Goldie assures her grandmother and the tailor. “From now on, I will be actively participating and promoting our Peranakan culture.”

  Pansy kisses her granddaughter on the cheek. Goldie is surprised to get such a show of affection, especially in public. It’s not something her mother does.

  “Bless you! I’ve passed on an important inheritance. I can die happy now.”

  “Grandma!” Goldie protests. “Please don’t talk about dying!”

  “Come on, let’s choose a matching kasut manek and kerosang. We don’t have buttons in a kebaya so the kerosang, with its three brooches linked with chains, help to hold it together. They come in various designs too. You’ll have a problem with the kasut manek in the beginning as they are dainty compared to your stout boots. But see how they accentuate your elegant ankles.”

  For the first time, Goldie finds it a joy to go shopping in a supermarket, going round with her grandmother to select the ingredients for making a pie: plain flour and butter for the short crust pastry; fresh apples, sugar and gelatine for the filling; cinnamon sticks and star anise for flavouring; an egg for the wash; and fresh whipping cream to eat the pie with.

  “I wish we could find some blackberries,” Pansy moans. “Grandpa loved his apple pie with blackberries. Their tartness contrasts well with the sweetness from the apples. I used to pick them wild, from the hedges in the countryside in England.”

  “Next time we can go to Jason’s and we may find some there.”

  “You know, these are not cooking apples, like the ones I used in England, so I don’t know how they’re going to turn out. Ah, apples fresh from the trees are delicious,” Pansy rhapsodises. “The absolute joy of plucking apples from my own tree!”

  In the apartment, Goldie is imitating her grandmother, using her fingers to make breadcrumbs with the flour and knobs of butter. The trick to good pastry, her grandmother explains to her, is to make it light and airy. The apple slices are simmering gently with sugar in the saucepan, and the smell of the cinnamon and star anise fills Pansy’s small kitchen in the condo apartment.

  “I feel like a kid playing with my playdoh,” Goldie says, smiling.

  She is amazed at how the act of preparation has such a relaxing effect on her. Pansy shows her how to bake the bottom layer of pastry blind. She covers the pastry with aluminium foil and put some rice grains to hold down the pastry before putting it in the oven.

  “Why do you do that, grandma?”

  “This way, the bottom pastry is cooked through before you put the filling into it. If you don’t do this, the outside gets cooked but not the bottom which will end up soggy.”

  “Wow!” says Goldie, impressed by the culinary tip. “There’s so much to learn.”

  Pansy shows her how to fill the pastry case with the stewed apple slices, how to put a pastry cover over it and wash it with egg white. As she places the pie in the oven, her grandmother sings an eighteenth century English nursery rhyme:

  Sing a song of sixpence,

  A pocket full of rye.

  Four and twenty blackbirds,

  Baked in a pie.

  When the pie was opened,

  The birds began to sing;

  Wasn’t that a dainty dish,

  To set before the king?

  “Oh no! I can’t remember the rest of the verses,” Pansy says, distressed.

  “Don’t worry, grandma. As I said before, I can google the rest of the words. Google is a search engine on the Internet which is free to use and you can find out most things on it. I will sing the song
to you when I get back now that I know the tune, I will perhaps sing it to my own children one day.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll be around to see that happen,” Pansy says.

  While the pie is baking in the oven, the fragrance that wafts into the air is mouth-watering.

  “Oh, I love this!” Goldie enthuses. “It feels homey.”

  “That’s what your grandpa always used to say!”

  “This is your Cho Cho with her hair down. If she was doing any work, she normally puts it up in a chignon,” Pansy says, handing Goldie the black-and-white photo in a small gilt frame, slightly worn with age. “During our time it was unusual for people to smile when their photo was being taken. They tried to look serious to make them appear more formal. But as you can see, my mother broke all conventions.”

  “She’s so young here… and so beautiful…”

  “Just as you are,” says Pansy, producing a handheld mirror so that Goldie can compare Kim Guek’s image with hers. “See how much like her you look. I bet you that when you wear your new sarong kebaya, you will be the spitting image of your great-grandmother.”

  “I’ve decided that when I get back from China, I’m going to tell my mother that I will change my name to Kim Guek.”

  “My heart runneth over,” Pansy says.

  They eat the warm pie with lashings of fresh whipped cream.

  “This is so good, grandma, the pastry simply melts in the mouth!”

  “There you are, your first home-baked apple pie!”

  “Thank you, grandma,” says Goldie happily. “It’s quite something, isn’t it? To eat something you’ve cooked with your own hands.”

  “That’s what I love about it. You get the same kind of satisfaction when you craft something, be it sewing a piece of embroidery, beading your own kasut manek, growing a garden, writing a poem, writing a story, or painting a picture,” says Pansy. “When what you do is not mechanical and involves your heart and soul, you enter a different realm and have created a work of art, be it edible or not. That is when your soul sings.”