By Amanda Chong Wei-Zhen
The old woman sat in the backseat of the magenta convertible as it careened down the highway, clutching tightly to the plastic bag on her lap, afraid it may be kidnapped by the wind. She was not used to such speed, with trembling hands she pulled the seat belt tighter but was careful not to touch the patent leather seats with her callused fingers, her daughter had warned her not to dirty it, 'Fingerprints show very clearly on white, Ma.'
Her daughter, Bee Choo, was driving and talking on her sleek silver mobile phone using big words the old woman could barely understand. 'Finance', 'Liquidation', 'Assets', 'Investments'... Her voice was crisp and important and had an unfamiliar lilt to it.
Her Bee Choo sounded like one of those foreign girls on television. She was speaking in an American accent. The old lady clucked her tongue in disapproval...... 'I absolutely cannot have this. We have to sell!' Her daughter exclaimed agitatedly as she stepped on the accelerator; her perfectly manicured fingernails gripping onto the steering wheel in irritation.
'I can't DEAL with this anymore!' she yelled as she clicked the phone shut and hurled it angrily toward the backseat. The mobile phone hit the old woman on the forehead and nestled soundlessly into her lap. She calmly picked it up and handed it to her daughter.
'Sorry, Ma,' she said, losing the American pretence and switching to Mandarin. 'I have a big client in America . There have been a lot of problems.'
The old lady nodded knowingly. Her daughter was big and important.
Bee Choo stared at her mother from the rear view window, wondering what she was thinking. Her mother's wrinkled countenance always carried the same cryptic look. The phone began to ring again, an artificially cheerful digital tune, which broke the awkward silence.
'Hello, Beatrice! Yes, this is Elaine.' Elaine. The old woman cringed. I didn't name her Elaine. She remembered her daughter telling her, how an English name was very important for 'networking', Chinese ones being easily forgotten.
'Oh no, I can't see you for lunch today. I have to take the ancient relic to the temple for her weird daily prayer ritual.'
Ancient Relic. The old woman understood perfectly it was referring to her. Her daughter always assumed that her mother's silence meant she did not comprehend.
'Yes, I know! My car seats will be reeking of joss sticks!' The old woman pursed her lips tightly, her hands gripping her plastic bag in defence. The car curved smoothly into the temple courtyard. It looked almost garish next to the dull sheen of the ageing temple's roof. The old woman got out of the back seat, and made her unhurried way to the main hall. Her daughter stepped out of the car in her business suit and stilettos and reapplied her lipstick as she made her brisk way to her mother's side.
'Ma, I'll wait outside.. I have an important phone call to make,' she said, not bothering to hide her disgust at the pungent fumes of incense.
The old lady hobbled into the temple hall and lit a joss stick, she knelt down solemnly and whispered her now familiar daily prayer to the Gods. 'Thank you God of the Sky, you have given my daughter luck all these years. Everything I prayed for, you have given her. She has everything a young woman in this world could possibly want. 'She has a big house with a swimming pool, a maid to help her, as she is too clumsy to sew or cook. Her love life has been blessed; she is engaged to a rich and handsome angmoh man.
'Her company is now the top financial firm and even men listen to what she says... She lives the perfect life. You have given her everything except happiness. I ask that the gods be merciful to her even if she has lost her roots while reaping the harvest of success.
'What you see is not true, she is a filial daughter to me. She gives me a room in her big house and provides well for me. She is rude to me only because I affect her happiness. A young woman does not want to be hindered by her old mother. It is my fault.'
The old lady prayed so hard that tears welled up in her eyes. Finally, with her head bowed in reverence she planted the half-burnt joss stick into an urn of smoldering ashes.
She bowed once more. The old woman had been praying for her daughter for thirty-two years. When her stomach was round like a melon, she came to the temple and prayed that it was a son.
Then the time was ripe and the baby slipped out of her womb, bawling and adorable with fat thighs and pink cheeks, but unmistakably, a girl. Her husband had ticked and punched her for producing a useless baby who could not work or carry the family name.
Still, the woman returned to the temple with her new-born girl tied to her waist in a sarong and prayed that her daughter would grow up and have everything she ever wanted.
Her husband left her and she prayed that her daughter would never have to depend on a man. She prayed every day that her daughter would be a great woman, the woman that she, meek and uneducated, could never become. A woman with 'neng kan'; the ability to do anything she set her mind to. A woman who commanded respect in the hearts of men. When she opened her mouth to speak, precious pearls would fall out and men would listen. She will not be like me, the woman prayed as she watched her daughter grow up and drift away from her, speaking a language she scarcely understood.
She watched her daughter transform from a quiet girl to one who openly defied her, calling her laotu, old fashioned.... She wanted her mother to be 'modern', a word so new there was no Chinese word for it. Now her daughter was too clever for her and the old woman wondered why she had prayed like that. The Gods had been faithful to her persistent prayer, but the wealth and success that poured forth so richly had buried the girl's roots and now she stood faceless with no identity, bound to the soil of her ancestors by only a string of origami banknotes.
Her daughter had forgotten her mother's value. Her wants were so ephemeral, that of a modern woman. Power, wealth, access to the best fashion boutiques and yet her daughter had not found true happiness. The old woman knew that you could find happiness with much less.
When her daughter left the earth, everything she had would count for nothing. People would look to her legacy and say that she was a great woman but she would be forgotten once the wind blows over, like the ashes of burnt paper convertibles and mansions.
The old woman wished she could go back and erase all her big hopes and prayers for her daughter now that she had looked out of the temple gates. She saw her daughter speaking on the phone, her brow furrowed with anger and worry. Being at the top is not good, the woman thought, there is only one
way to go from there –down.
The old woman carefully unfolded the plastic bag and spread out a packet of beehoon in front of the altar. Her daughter often mocked her for worshiping porcelain Gods. How could she pray to them so faithfully and expect pieces of ceramic to fly to her aid? But her daughter had her own gods too, idols of wealth, success and power that she enslaved to and worshiped every day of her life.
Every day was a quest for the idols, and the idols she worshiped counted for nothing in eternity. All the wants her daughter had would slowly suck the life out of her and leave her, an empty souless shell at the altar. The old woman watched the joss stick. The dull heat had left a teetering grey stem that was on the danger of collapsing.
Modern woman nowadays, the old lady signed in resignation, as she bowed to the east bone a final time to end her ritual. Modern woman nowadays want so much that they lose their souls and wonder whey they cannot find it.
Her joss stick disintegrated into a soft grey powder. She met her daughter outside the temple, the same look of worry and frustration was etched on her daughter's face.
An empty expression, as if she was ploughing through the soil of her wants looking for the one thing that would sown the seeds of happiness. They climbed into the convertible in silence and her daughter drove along the highway, this time not to fast as she had done before.
‘Ma,’ Bee Choo finally said. 'I don't know how to put this. Mark and I have been talking about it and we plan to move out of the big house. The property market is good now, and we managed to get a buyer willing to pay us seven million for it. We decided we'd prefer a cosier penthouse apartment instead. We found a perfect one in Orchard Road. Once we move into our apartment, we plan to get rid of the maid, so we can have more space to ourselves...'
The old woman nodded knowingly. Bee Choo swallowed hard. 'We'd get someone to come in to do the housework and we can eat out – but once the maid is gone, there won't be anyone to look after you. You will be awfully lonely at home and, besides that the apartment is rather small. There won't be space. We thought about it for a long time, and we decided the best thing for you is if you moved to a Home. There's one near Hougang– it's a Christian home and a very nice one.'
The old woman did not raise an eyebrow. 'I"ve been there, the matron is willing to take you in. It's beautiful with gardens and lots of old people to keep you company! Hardly have time for you, you'd be happier
there. You'd be happier there, really.' her daughter repeated as if to affirm herself.
This time the old woman had no plastic bag of food offering to cling tightly to, she bit her lip and fastened her seat belt, as if it would protect her from a daughter who did not want her anymore. She sunk deep into the leather seat, letting her shoulders sag and her fingers trace the white seat.
'Ma,' her daughter asked, searching the rear view window for her mother. 'Is everything okay?'
What had to be done, had to be done. 'Yes' she said firmly, louder than she intended, 'if it will make you happy,' she added more quietly.
‘It's for you, Ma! You will be happier there. You can move there tomorrow, I already got the maid to pack your things.' Elaine said triumphantly, mentally ticking yet another item off her agenda. 'I knew everything would be fine.' Elaine smiled widely; she felt liberated. Perhaps getting rid of her mother would make her happier... She had thought about it. It seemed the only hindrance in her pursuit of happiness. She was happy now. She had everything a modern woman ever wanted; money, status, career, love, power and now freedom without her mother and her old-fashioned ways to weigh her down...
Yes she was free. Her phone butted urgently, she picked it up and read the message, still beaming from ear to ear. 'Stock 10% increase.' Yes, things were definitely beginning to look up for her and while searching for the meaning of life in the luminance of her hand phone screen, the old woman in the backseat became invisible and she did not see her in tears. ***************************************************** ***************
So fellow friends, save enough for your old age and don't try to rely on your children.
Your responsibility is to give them the necessary education/training and life after that is theirs.
JULY 14 — I grew up in one of those households that affirmed a specific stereotype for a specific race. The Chinese all stuck together, clannish is the word I think my family called them. The Malays had it easy with all the help it got from the government and that left us, the Indians to fend for ourselves (as it was a well known fact that Indians never really helped one another). I believed that despite being a Malaysian citizen, I was born into an unfortunate situation.
My mother constantly spoke about migration and how we had to go in search of a better life, one Malaysia could not secure for a middle class Indian family like ours.
Like every other Indian family, it began with studying abroad. But as much as I enjoyed the freedom of a foreign land, I always felt the pull of Malaysia and returned after a long stint away.
I never worried myself over our economy, our government, our political leaders. I grew up understanding that the odds were already stacked against me, that some things, despite my citizenship would just never be available to me. But that never stopped me from complaining.
From as soon as I could form my own thoughts, I’ve been complaining. Every hurdle I ever came across, I attributed to foul play or inequality of the Malaysian system. I considered myself nothing more but a victim of the system.
But the time finally came for me to stop complaining and pointing fingers and to do something about it. The tremendous momentum of the Bersih rally managed to even garner my-never-read-the-newspaper attention. There was this sudden uproar demanding justice, and I felt an overwhelming need to support it.
The ludicrous statements churned out by our prime minister made me foam at the mouth. How could they pull such dirty tricks at a national level and think they could get away with it? That must have been the moment I decided that an arrogant and bullish government was a government that didn’t deserve to rule further and I was going to do everything in my little way to ensure it.
I told my mother that I had to attend the Bersih rally, and much to my surprise, she didn’t try to stop me. She even packed me and my sister raincoats to keep the anticipated chemical-laced water from the water cannons off our skin.
I remember praying that morning. Apart from asking God to help me not get arrested, I prayed that this peaceful assembly would result in a new Malaysia, one that I could be proud of.
My sister, her friend and I made our way to the Pasar Seni station and were met with fear as we saw FRU trucks and countless men in uniform. The mood was tense and the lack of non-Malays made me nervous. I feared standing out like a sore thumb.
By 1pm, we had begun to march down Petaling Street. We immediately felt safe in a sea of what can only be described as a multiracial crowd of Malaysians. People were passing around flowers, snapping photographs and even blowing up balloons to toss around. Photographers on rooftops summoned the crowd to look up and in turn we flashed our biggest smiles.
This street carnival atmosphere erased some of the tension that most of us had been feeling earlier, when we arrived at what appeared to be a ghost town of Kuala Lumpur. Fear was the furthest things from our mind as we sang “Bersih, bersih” to the tune of Ole-ole.
Due to a blockage at one of the streets leading up to Stadium Merdeka, we made our way instead towards Menara Maybank. This is where I witnessed a whole new Malaysia. Malays, Chinese and Indians were smiling, laughing, waving at people in the LRTs together. No one uttered curse words, no one showed the FRU the finger (I checked when a police helicopter flew by) and no one seemed inclined to any kind of violence, except for the FRU that is. That precise moment of Malaysian harmony at its finest was met by canisters of tear gas and so began what has become a truly historic day.
My sister, her friend and I clutched each other tightly and ran for our lives. There are no words to describe the fear of being attacked by your own police. The protectors of our country, the defenders of the weak were hell bent on hurting little ol’ unarmed me.
Once we had been cornered at Jalan Pudu, I started to worry. This was all getting too dangerous for my liking and as fate would have it, we could see no possible exit strategy. A cloud of tear gas engulfed me, each breath like needles into my nose, throat and worst of all lungs. I clutched on to my sister's backpack as we summoned ourselves to run blindly out of harm’s way.
I could barely open my eyes and my heart raced like it was about to explode. I felt nauseous and dizzy all at once, I could barely stand upright let alone sprint anymore when it began to rain heavily, soaking us all while washing remnants of the tear gas off our burning skin.
We ran into what appeared to be an open space next to the Tung Shin Hospital. As I gasped for oxygen, I was met with the sincere concern of other rally participants, all offering water and salt to minimise the effects of the hazardous gas.
I remember what I saw then very clearly (despite the tears running down my cheek) as it has changed my mind of Malaysia. Malaysians were sharing water, salt and towels. Malaysians were helpful and considerate. Malaysians were praying together for the violence to cease.
Choked with emotion and lungs still hurting from the tear gas, we were on the run again. In the distance I could see the FRU charging at us, batons waving threateningly in the air. We were now faced with a 12-foot wall. This was no ordinary wall, it was red earth cut at an almost 90 degree angle. There was no way to climb this wall unless you possessed the acrobatic skills of a Chinese circus artiste.
But a group of Malay men had made a hole in the fence of the neighbouring Chinese school and in an orderly fashion were pulling people up over the wall. I waited patiently (despite the horrid yelling of the FRU behind me) for my turn as a kind gentleman summoned the strength of the gods to single handedly pull me to safety. Before I knew it, my sister and her friend were over the ledge too as more tear gas canisters exploded around us.
Out of sheer instinct, your body only knows to run. So run we did. We followed the crowd to what was another hole in a fence, this time down a slippery slope. A Chinese man and a Malay man held their hands out for me to trek down carefully, yet again, all in an orderly fashion. I held on to anyone who was within reach for balance and offered the same for the ones trapped behind me. The barbed wires of the fence ate into the flesh of a Malay man that held the opening for us to pass and seemed unfazed by the fact the the FRU was so close. It was clear that he was leaving no Malaysian behind.
As I made my way through the broken fence, a young Malay boy whispered, “Ingat BN saja boleh buat jalan, kita pun boleh buat jalan” and winked at me. I laughed. With the FRU hot on our trail, I managed to savour the moment, just stand there and laugh. Then we started to run again.
Now that the burn of the tear gas has left my body, and the ache of the chase is long gone, what remains fresh in my mind is the spirit of unity Malaysians showed me. Our solidarity was undeniable.
To see the lies reported in the newspapers makes me mad but gives me hope to believe that maybe everything else I’ve read in the news before this were lies too. After all I did not see clannish Chinese, easygoing Malays or selfish Indians, I only saw Malaysians, eager for peace and justice.
I would like to thank that very kind Malay gentleman who hauled me up almost 12 feet. I wish I had taken the moment to look you in the eye and thank you for being the Malaysian we should all aspire to be.
July 9, 2011 is the day when I finally stopped being an Indian in Malaysia. I am now proud to be simply a Malaysian.