The House
Megan Ng
It was on Highland Road.
Third from a big drain at
The end.
Grandma’s house
In Hougang had
An iron gate that felt
Too hot to touch
Whenever we arrived.
An uncle in younger
Years spiked his chin
On its spokes –
A notch to show for it.
Everyone told the story
When I tumbled from
The four-seater swing
On frontyard tiles,
Teeth bloodied lips.
My cousin got the yelling -
Me, the victim.
It was his turn last time.
The living room was huge
With a flowery rug,
Where we had our
Weekly toe-sinking,
Wriggling fun;
Puffy dusk rose seats
In baroque curls
Regarded us in repose.
The air smelt faintly
Of wood and
Tiles scorched -
Without, wafting in.
My brother gave grandpa
An almost heart attack
Once, when he leapt
Off seven stairs to
Almost miss the
Dinner table, landing
There.
We thought grandma
Did great food,
Cooking in the backyard
Shade - canopy had
MacDonald’s colours.
We wobbled round in
Red wooden clogs
While she worked the wok,
Mum and aunts helping;
Eggs and onions sizzling
Deliciously.
The round dinner table
Had a spinning center,
With a lot of food.
At eye level, steaming:
Black bean fish, chicken
Curry, mushrooms,
Bee hoon, and more
That looked like what
Mum had cooked before.
But first, the Teochew
Manners that
Parents taught at home,
Tested, on such occasions –
Chorus of hungry
‘Jia’s – address elders
‘Eat’, from the
Oldest first, down
Six relatives to
My youngest aunt,
Before tucking in.
She chided me once,
For playing
With chopsticks:
‘Hitting them like that
Will make
Your parents quarrel.’
I stared and held them
Tight and still.
Upstairs, grandma’s room
Had air-con.
We liked the sudden cold,
And she liked our little hands
To knead and speed
Her noonday nap.
One of us pounded with
A round rubber
Massage tap tap
While another unearthed
Beige cane fans, crisp
With batik flames
Burning stems.
She was the Empress Dowager,
Ci Xi, whom we saw
On TV; or Cleopatra,
Queen of Egypt,
In Asterix and Obelix.
Downstairs, grandpa watched
A Chinese serial, loud
With intrigue and
Drama, shrill voices
Boomeranged
Jade statues ruminating
On rosewood shelves.
The organ’s cover shut.
A nasal ringing hum
Dreamed
An accompaniment.
One afternoon, he rose,
And called us to a corner,
Opening a passport
Crinkled as his hands;
The sepia of a youth
That gazed at him.
We marvelled at his story.
China, Swatow;
The long way across the sea.
Orphaned young,
Apprentice child, and
Self-made man.
My aunts got married
One by one.
Weddings were like
Chinese New Year
Without ang baos –
New clothes and
Festive treats.
Gold dowry glistened
On crimson felt,
Next to home-made kuehs,
And peach-shaped paus
Blushing pink,
A pyramid prayer
Of auspicious intent.
In the morning, the bride
Would descend, the steps
A waterfall of white.
The moment
Brief and blinding,
As a camera’s light.
Bougainvillas purply pink
Burst from brown deep
Ceramic pots
Bellies with dragons
Chasing round;
Dead sea-horses
Mottled and stiff,
Half-bobbed in soil –
Scarey things from
Grandpa’s tiny shophouse,
Hai Swee Gao.
My cousins dared me
To touch it.
And for days after,
The memory of
Crusty rims pressed
Itself, goose-pimply
On finger thin skin.
The dark little storeroom
Under the stairs,
Was where we pretended
We were dead.
Lying among feather dusters,
Brooms and mothball nets,
Till someone called
Our names and giggly
‘Sssshhhs’ recovered
Us from the dead.
But we never stayed the
Night -
When we said our ‘bye’s
And piled into dad’s Subaru,
Reversing home, and to
Tomorrow’s dreaded school.
And now, years past
A death -
A house-moving,
We’ve left.
But I still visit the house -
The gate, the swing,
Its rooms, drawers,
Faces and things.
What is left;
What it left.
The living and leaving. |
