You Might Want to Marry My Husband

by Yap Swi Neo

  ‘No madam, one year already, boyfriend still no come. Said cannot get job. He ask me $2500, and I tell him I have no money, he very angry. He not call me. He not answer my calls. Better I stay and work here.

  ‘Madam, I getting married. He Iranian, very, very good man. Yes, he Muslim. He supervisor transport-company, carry things from factory to shops. Mother? Mother say I nearly 40 years old. So better get married. We go pay respects to family, next month. Then we go to Iran. I become Muslim in Iran and we marry in his house. His parents agree. They see my photos and say they like me. We can live in Iran.

  ‘Thank you madam, but please don’t send gold. Registered post also no use. Only empty envelope I get. Money? No, please don’t.

  ‘Madam, I at airport now. When I marry I send you wedding photos and new telephone number. Thank you madam for everything.’

  I did not receive any call, wedding photos or hear from Kamani again. My calls were unanswered, no such number. Kamani, my dear, dear Kamani, I think of you often. My friends who knew you also enquired. Where are you? How are you? No one knows. We pray for your well-being.

  * * *

  Biryani is popular throughout the Indian subcontinent, as well as among its diaspora. It is a mixed rice dish made with Indian spices, rice, and meat and vegetables. ↵

  Local coconut jam. ↵

  Puri is a deep-fat fried bread made from unleavened wholewheat flour. ↵

  An Indian enclave with Indian restaurants, clothes shops and jewellery shops. ↵

  Spicy fried noodles. ↵

  The Girl In The Taj Mahal

  This story tells my experience as a lecturer during classroom observations of my trainees. The story is an accurate account of life in a rubber estate. Scholarships were offered to students who were accepted by the university. All workers always had a yearning to ‘go home’ to India one day to visit the Taj Mahal, when they had saved enough. Many others however chose to settle in their adopted country. My story revolves round this estate.

  The gods were sad, and they wept. Or perhaps they were angry. No one knew for sure. And their tears formed waterfalls. But as there were no mountains or high ground in the rubber estate, their tears formed rivers, gushing muddy water uncontrollably into the estate. No one in the rubber estate community knew why this watery punishment was meted on them; they were convinced they had displeased the gods.

  ‘Ritesh, ma! Ritesh, ma!’ The mother, shaded under a banana leaf, stood outside the school and called out for her son. The teacher looked out the window and, competing with the sound and fury of the rain, shouted back, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I give Ritesh banana leaf.’

  ‘Which class?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Every day when it rained, mothers, shaded under a banana leaf umbrella, called out to their children to hand them a leaf umbrella.

  Ritesh, his parents and grandparents and two brothers lived in a small rubber estate community. They had arrived in a small boat from India to this new country, Malaysia. The children were in school as the recruiting agent had promised.

  The villagers were poor, uneducated, landless, greatly in debt, with several children to feed. Life was a struggle. The recruiting agent understood their struggles. He also understood Malaysia needed thousands of cheap labour to tap the rubber trees for latex, a major export. He relished his trips home to recruit young men to work in Malaysia. He was all smiles, seeing himself banking in his substantial recruiting agent fees. He was persuasive and had great emotional intelligence.

  ‘Annan,[1] here no work, no land, no money. I take you work in Malaysia. Big rubber estate. Got plenty job, tap rubber. There good. Every worker get one house, got two rooms. Got land. Can plant vegetables, get some chickens. You work get plenty money, can buy goat, cow also can. Get milk, sell get more money.’

  The villagers were confused. Many questions and fears were raised. ‘Where this country? How go? Who people work there? What rubber? Never see. How work there? What we eat? Got dhal? Got tomatoes? How cut tree and tree not die. We cut tree make fire, cook food. Got people speak Tamil?’

  Their questions answered, fears of this new land diminished. ‘The mandor teach you how work. He supervisor very good man.’ The villagers were interested. Then in subdued tones, the prize catch, the bait he knew would trap the villagers. ‘In Malaysia, all children must go school. Children no go school, appa and am’ma police catch go jail.’

  Ritesh’s family, like many others, had dreamed of the brilliant future their children would have as doctors, teachers and perhaps even becoming a minister in their home village. They hugged their carpetbags and set sail in a small, overcrowded, probably unseaworthy, boat to this new land of great promises.

  In their new home in a rubber estate in the state of Pahang, parents and grandparents were grateful they had a job tapping rubber. They also had a small house with two rooms, a sitting room and a shared kitchen with another family, and land around the house where they could plant vegetables. And the good agent was right, their only son and grandson, Ritesh, was in the estate school. They were happy. Their two older children had died of disease. They did not know what the disease was; the doctor had said it was a bad disease, the hospital was far away, they had no money. The mandor explained, ‘The company has no money for medicine. Money for medicine is only for workers; the boys are not workers.’ The supervisor gave them some money from the company. So they buried the two boys, and moved to this new community somewhere in Johore, hoping for a new life for their only remaining child, Ritesh.

  Ritesh was six years old and placed in Primary 1. He spoke his mother tongue at home. In school he learnt a little English and his lessons were in Bahasa, the national language and medium of instruction in Malaysia. Soon he was able to write his name in the English alphabet, R-i-t-e-s-h. He was a good student. His parents and grandparents drilled into him, ‘Ritesh, very important go school and learn all lessons. Then you become very clever. No need to wake up 3 morning tap rubber. You become doctor or teacher or minister and become rich.’ Ritesh etched all these in his heart.

  Two years later a new guru besar, the headteacher, arrived with his wife and his daughter. Ritesh had never seen a more beautiful girl. Unfortunately she was a baby. Nonetheless, he decided that when he grew up he would marry her, and be a headmaster too, and they would live happily ever after, just like in the movies. But he had watched only one movie in his eight years. It was Deepavali and the estate manager had screened the movie in his garden for all the staff. The movie was screened five times. Ritesh watched it five times like everyone else.

  Ritesh couldn’t remember the title, nor the story, nor the actors and actresses, nor the songs, but he remembered them as the most melodious songs he had ever heard, and the most graceful dances he had ever watched. Most of all he remembered the girl. The girl with the most beautiful face, the most beautiful long, shiny black hair flowing down to her waist as she danced, the most beautiful eyes, the most beautiful lips, the most beautiful voice and the most beautiful name. She was dancing and singing around the most beautiful building in the world, the Taj Mahal.

  After the movie he asked his grandfather, ‘Daa-daa-jee, what is the Taj Mahal?’

  Daa-daa-jee spoke Tamil, fearful his grandson might forget his mother tongue. ‘It is the most beautiful building in the world. It is very large, very, very large. There are many rooms inside. If you sleep only one night in one room from the day you were born, you will be twenty-five years old when you complete sleeping in all the rooms. The walls are white, and many workers must clean them every day. Taj Mahal is a holy place. Their great ruler built for wife because he loved her very much.’

  ‘What is his name daa-daa-jee?’

  Daa-daa-jee explained he was a great shah but forgot his name. ‘It is a beautiful palace, with water round it; fish swim in it and other animals also live in the gardens. It is so beautiful that animals do not fight; lions and deer eat grass together; snakes can carry rats on their long backs to
wherever the rats want to go; white horses marry black horses and their children got black and white stripes. Before I die I want to visit the Taj Mahal. Ritesh, you study hard and become clever boy, and become rich, and take me there.’

  Ritesh promised his grandfather. That night he wrote in his English reader, ‘I will study hard to be clever. I want to be an airline pilot and take my daa-daa-jee to the Taj Mahal.’ A few days later he added ‘my maa-maa-jee, appa and am’ma also.’ And another few days later, ‘and the girl in the Taj Mahal.’ He thought it only right that as he wanted to be a clever boy and become an airline pilot, he should write completely in English, every word.

  To grandfather, father and Ritesh, the Taj Mahal is the Taj Mahal, never Taj or Mahal. That would be most disrespectful to this great and majestic palace of the great shah. They did not know his name. They only knew he was a great shah.

  Daa-daa-jee told him many stories about the Taj Mahal. It took 20,000 artisans to build it. It took fifty years to build it. The white stones came from around the world, some from faraway China, some from faraway India.

  ‘Daa-daa-jee Taj Mahal is in India.’

  ‘India is very big. Some stones came from England. The king of England heard about this beautiful palace and gave some stones.’

  ‘The king of England also knew about the Taj Mahal?’

  ‘Of course, all kings in Europe heard about this beautiful palace.’

  ‘Did they come to see it?’

  ‘Not yet, not ready. On nights when the moon is round and bright and no wind, you can see two Taj Mahal, one white in the moonlight and one black in the water.’

  And every story grandfather told him added on to its beauty and splendour and the girl in the Taj Mahal. Lying in bed, Ritesh saw himself weaving among the banana plants, the papaya plants, the rambutan trees, the mango trees and the rubber trees. He removed the hard shells of the rubber seeds and used them as fish bait. He put the seeds inside the bubu and the aromatic smell of the seeds attracted the fish into the trap. Once, he caught 37 fish in his bubu. He gave them all to the girl in the Taj Mahal. She was about to hug him, when one of the fish nibbled on his finger and he woke up. He sobbed for lost love.

  And for several years Ritesh dreamed of the girl in the Taj Mahal. He knew everything about her. They talked for hours, danced and sang round the gardens, weaved their way around the papaya and banana plants, the rambutan and rubber tress. They were happy.

  When the new headmaster arrived with his wife and Aasha his daughter, Ritesh knew his girl in the Taj Mahal had arrived. Aasha was in Primary 1, Ritesh was in Primary 4.

  On their first rainy day Ritesh shared his leaf umbrella with Aasha, his girl in the Taj Mahal, but she had a real umbrella. That night Ritesh said to his mother, ‘Am’ma, the guru besar says mothers cannot shout for their children outside the school. It is very rude.’

  ‘You bring banana leaf to school.’

  ‘No one can cut a banana leaf. The guru besar explained if everyone did that there would be no leaves on banana plants, then there would be no more banana plants. And no more bananas. If I bring one, I cannot go to school anymore.’ No mothers ever again took refuge under a banana leaf umbrella.

  The guru besar’s daughter had a pencil box and coloured pencils. She was also very clever. She could sing ‘Miss Polly Has a Dolly’, ‘Sing a Song of Six Pence’, ‘Ding Dong Bell’ and many other strange songs. Ritesh learnt these songs as he was determined he would be worthy of her. He carried her bag to her house, exactly eleven steps away from his family’s room. He picked flowers for her hair, caught spiders for her, but no, she didn’t like spiders. So Ritesh no longer liked spiders. All the children played with rubber seeds that were plentiful. They played ‘who can collect the most seeds to the count of twenty’. The girl in the Taj Mahal did not like to lose, so Ritesh made sure she never lost. They discovered that rubbing two seeds together or against a hard surface, made the seeds hot. Ah the greatest fun – chap your unsuspecting friend, the prized place was on the cheek. One had to be stealthy to achieve that. The girl in the Taj Mahal cried when she was chap-ed, so Ritesh always received the chap, twice over. They played guli with the seeds. It did not matter when the seed marbles were lost. There were countless more. When the rains came and the parits overflowed, they caught little fish and kept them in little jars. When it no longer rained and the streams were a trickle, they forgot the fish, until the next rainy season.

  Later that year the rubber plantation was sold to another large international company. The new management offered scholarships to all children who completed their primary school and passed all the exams to continue secondary school in the nearest town. Ritesh remembered his promise to daa-daa-jee and studied very hard under the light of the kerosene lamp, which hung on the wall by the kitchen. On windy nights, the swinging lamp created strange shadows on the wall, but all Ritesh saw was the girl in the Taj Mahal happily dancing, just for him. He felt sad when the oil flickered its last breath of life, and his homework was still not completed. Grandfather smoked much less, and toddy was not seen again. The wick in the oil lamp stayed awake much longer.

  When the time came for Ritesh to leave for the town school, he promised the girl in the Taj Mahal he would write to her every day. He did not promise his daa-daa-jee because no one in his family could read. The first month Ritesh found everything strange and he fell sick. Then he remembered his promise to daa-daa-jee and miraculously recovered. He wanted to tell the girl in the Taj Mahal everything about the new school and the new town; students did not go home during recess, they bought food from the tuck shop; he did not know what foods they were, never seen them and he was sick; around the town where there were endless streams of cars but no cows or goats; you had to buy bananas and papayas and coconuts, not pluck them off the trees. If you did that, the police would catch you and you would be sent to jail. But there were no such plants in the town. He didn’t write because he couldn’t. He didn’t have money for ‘letter’ paper, envelopes and the 8-cent stamps. But the main reason he didn’t write was he did not know the address. No one in the estate had ever received a letter. The mandor told the community everything they needed to know. No one asked, nor questioned; everyone listened, believed and accepted whatever the estate supervisor told them. Everyone was content with life.

  During the long year-end holidays, Ritesh went home. He had missed all the excitement of what had happened in the community. Two years into secondary school, one November-December holiday, Ritesh found himself in a new community. All the old houses were gone. There were new living quarters, and each family had more rooms. Ritesh now had his own room. He cherished that, enjoying his privacy. But at times alone in the dark, enveloped in his private thoughts, he missed the stale yet still sweet fragrance of maa-maa-jee’s jasmine or frangipani flowers in her hair, and daa-daa-jee’s stale tobacco and toddy smell when he slept between them. He could not find his English reader where he had written ‘I will study hard to be clever. I want to be an airline pilot and take my grandfather to the Taj Mahal,’, ‘my grandmother, and father and mother also’, ‘and the girl in the Taj Mahal’. But he remembered – it was buried in his heart. One does not forget one’s name – Ritesh, lord of truth.

  ‘Daa-daa-jee, what happened?’

  Daa-daa-jee told him. One morning when they were preparing to go to the trees, a kerosene lamp overturned and a fire started. It spread so quickly and burnt most of the twenty-over-years-old attap and wooden houses. It was good there were no doors to any of the houses, so people were able to run out quickly.

  ‘Were you hurt?’

  ‘No one was hurt. The manager asked whose kerosene lamp it was.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘Everyone said, “Don’t know!” I told the manager, “Why you ask stupid question? Already burnt everything. You must help us build new houses and buy clothes. See my pots and plates here? All black and broken!!! And my wife and I have no clothes! You want all the people here to be n
aked or what!” Everyone clapped their hands. I was a hero. I was very happy.’

  Daa-daa-jee told him every detail, as he did with the Taj Mahal, as he always did with every story about Mother India. The monsoons had come early. They were not prepared. The winds and the rains were like Kunchikal Falls not resting even for one minute! The winds were hurricanes, howling loudly like many mad people running from everywhere to nowhere. The water and the wind were competing to see which was the stronger. So much water and wind just like when they were in the boat on their way over from India. The roofs leaked, some caved in, some were blown off; vegetables drowned; many of the chickens were blown away; cows became sick and there was no milk. Two goats died. Everyone was very scared. Even the Manager was scared. He came with the mandor and spoke to them and promised to help them. There was no tapping to do. The rule said, ‘No work, no pay.’

  ‘Maybe Lord Siva is angry.’

  Daa-daa-jee concluded sternly, ‘Let’s not talk about Lord Siva. He’s our God, and he must have his reasons. Maybe we were bad.’

  ‘Daa-daa-jee what did you do to find food?’

  ‘The manager is a good man. He gave every family ten kilos of rice, two kilos sugar, salt, seven big packets of dhal and curry powder, ten tins of Milkmaid condensed milk and two dozen cans of Yeo Hiap Seng chicken curry. Three days later when the mandor told him many old people were sick, he gave every daa-daa-jee and daa-dee-maa two bottles of Brands Essence Of Chicken. I like it, tastes a little like toddy. Maa-maa-jee did not like it. Am’ma drank hers. I and appa like it. There was enough food for everyone. The mandor is a good man. He gave every worker exactly what the manager said to give. But his understanding of food distribution for children and people who are not tappers is not very good.’

  The community prayed to Ganesha. When the sun mopped up the water, the opposite happened. Everything became tinder dry. They had prayed too hard for dry weather. But then again Ganesha is a good god. The fire was good. It gave them new houses with asbestos roofs, with doors and a latch, and more rooms for each family. The year was a good year even though they lived amidst the rubble for about six months.