Frog Under A Coconut Shell Read online

  The publisher for my first novel took me out to lunch one day on one of my trips to Singapore and he brought along one of his colleagues. The lady was well-dressed, heavy 24-carat gold earrings with diamonds in her ears, a thick gold chain around her neck, a multitude of rings on her fingers. She spoke with a polished, buttery voice. My publisher told her that I had been brought up in a Malay kampong and he asked me to tell her about it. I described to her the kind of life I had led, with no electricity and no running water, but I tried to make it sound humorous than pathetic because I don’t have to live that kind of life now. The woman sat disbelieving, then tossed back her mane of jet-black, shoulder-length hair and said, “Were there really kampongs like that here in Singapore? I thought they existed only in Malaya.”

  If she had been at the age of the young reporter who had interviewed me when I won the prize in the Ian St. James Awards, I would not have been surprised, but she looked nearer my age, which meant that the kampongs existed in her lifetime. I then thought she that she might have been educated abroad and had therefore been shielded from the harsh realities of her own country.

  “Did you grow up in Singapore?” I asked her.

  “Yes. Around Holland Road,” she said.

  Well, that explained part of it. Holland Road is to the ordinary, local people in Singapore, like Knightsbridge or Mayfair to the English. Only Europeans and extremely wealthy local people lived there. If I thought my classmate, Elizabeth, was rich, this lady and her family must have been hugely wealthy. Subsequently, when she began to talk about her family and the bond-maids they had, I knew they were (and probably still are) hugely wealthy. Bond-maids were servants bought from poor households, who rendered a lifetime of service. Like slaves really. And this lady was telling us that her family had them until the 1960s! Now, I became disbelieving that people could pluck young children, usually pre-teen girls from China or Malaya, from their own families to serve theirs. Certainly, the likes of this woman wouldn’t have dreamed of venturing near kampongs such as ours for fear of disease, plague and dirt. But I was still surprised that she thought everyone in Singapore lived like her, that she could be so unaware of the poverty that surrounded her in such a small country as Singapore.

  She couldn’t have understood what it was like for me, a kampong girl, to take my first step into the school library to realise that these were books I could take home to read for free. She would not have known the impact of the idea that between the leaves of books were worlds waiting to be explored, when all the world I had until then known was the shanty-village I grew up in. All it needed was a capacity to read and one could be transported to new places — to someone who had no means of travelling, no hope of knowing other places, other worlds, like the rich and privileged, it was a phenomenal step. But never mind, she must have been a really good person in her past lives to have deserved being born into such privilege. Even if I had been bad in mine, I was okay in this lifetime because I was given the opportunity of going to school and I did learn to read. I was given the chance to borrow books. Since we were a British colony, most of the books were stories about England and I travelled to that faraway place through Enid Blyton’s books. I took them home to share with Mak and Parvathi. My mother was happy on two accounts: one, that I could read; and two, that she was given a way to escape the coconut shell of her existence through these books, too. Mine was a shared edcuation, brightening the lives of others as I learned. So when I started reading the daily English newspapers, I began to share them with Mak, too, pointing out to her relevant photographs pertaining to the article I was reading. It was a habit that lasted all the time I lived with her and I know she treasured it, too. Many of the housewives in the village did not read either and Mak might relay a tid-bit of news to them the following day. It was amusing to watch her as she held out the newspaper and pointed out the photographs to them and talked about the article as if she could read.

  “You see,” I heard her say to Mak Ahyee once. “That’s how Bukit Timah canal looked yesterday, lah. Rushing water was muddy and overflowed to flood the road. Very many trouble for people and cyclists. This motorist was blind-blind by rain that he drove straight into canal. That is his up-turned car here. ”

  “Wahh!” Mak Ahyee exclaimed, and I couldn’t be sure whether it was a response to the incident or the fact that she thought Mak could read the newspaper.

  On her days off when we were not reading, Parvathi and I played at masak-masak, cooking over a small clay stove and pretending to be wives and mothers. We crouched behind a lean-to, cooking and beating off mosquitoes. Parvathi’s mental years did not match her physical years. It was not something I noted then nor was I bothered by it, she was just a good friend with whom I shared lovely times and impossible dreams. When she returned home from work with her fingers bleeding, I would tend to them as if I was a nurse and that made her very happy. We had five good years together where she learnt a great deal from the books we read together. When I turned 14, and Parvathi, nearly 17, we started reading romances by Denise Robins and Barbara Cartland. We had salvaged the romantic novels from the bins of the English people at the Top-Of-The-Hill. Because my father would kill me if he found out, we wrapped the covers with brown paper and read it in our secret hideaway. Once there, we would unwrap the covers and drooled over the bronzed muscular bodies of the handsome heroes. We learnt of strong, handsome men who would come and sweep us off our feet, take us away from the village to live in their wonderful castles. The books inspired us to dream about falling in love and marrying for love. It was not a concept we were used to, but we could hope. For brief moments, we would pretend that we would be allowed to fall in love and marry the men of our choice. But this was not to be for Parvathi. That was the pivotal point when everything changed for Parvathi, and for our relationship. If her life had been luckless before, it was to get worse. She had a visit from her father, then came calling me in huge distress, tears streaming from her face.

  “What is it, huh?” I said. “What is it?”

  We held hands and walked together to our secret hideout, a place hidden from view by a coconut tree brought down by the monsoon rains, its trunk resting on the ground, its fronds creating a shelter. The fact that my best friend was distressed made me distressed but I let her cry for a bit, rubbing coconut oil into her hands.

  “My father got make match for me, lah.”

  “Oh, no, lah,” I said, in disbelief that such a fate was going to befall my friend. But I had not heard the whole news yet.

  “And more-more bad. The man my father chosen me is my father’s brother! Imagine, my own uncle! He is fat and ugly, one, and he is 40 years old, lah! And I am not even 17!” She bawled.

  I had caught a glimpse of her uncle before and he was not a pretty sight, a man with a pockmarked face, with teeth all brown with betel nut juice stains. I tried to imagine having to let such a man kiss or fondle me, and it filled me with disgust, so I cried with her; fearing my own destiny, the fate that my own father had spoken of many times, of finding the right man for me when I was old enough. Someone he said, who would give him a sizeable dowry for me. But I had planned to run away from home before he inflicted that fate upon me. I didn’t know what I would tell my mother when the time came, but I was sure she’d understand. But it was Parvathi, not I, who stood at such a crossroad.

  “What did your mother say?”

  “Ah, she’s only a woman, what. What can she do? She said him to find a younger man for me, lah. But my father, he said her to shut up. He making the reason that my uncle, his wife just dieded. And they have four little-little children. So of course need new wife quickly-quickly to look after them, what. He promiseded to pay my father plenty money for me. But what for, huh? Money won’t last long; same night will be used for toddy, lah.”

  When I told Mak about it, she sighed.

  “That’s why I want you to go to school,” she said. “Then you can earn your own living. You don’t have to be ruled by men.”

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p; Was she laying the ground for me to defy my father? Was she suggesting that I should break conventions and make my own choices in life? My heart leapt — if I studied well, I wouldn’t have to marry the man of my father’s choice! My future could be in my own hands. It was a thought that filled me with power for the first time! My mother, through her foresight in getting me to school, was shaping my future. I had never treated school lightly before but in that moment, school and education became all the more crucial. It was not just about learning about worlds compressed in books, it was also about learning how to have power in your own hands and to wield it! It was about leaving the coconut shell of my existence. Sad as I was about Parvathi’s impending fate, I was excited about mine. This I did not share with Parvathi, as it would have been unfair in the circumstances.

  Parvathi’s father came and went, making arrangements for the wedding. Parvathi was to leave her job the following month. She became more and more morose. I knew she was really upset when her old habit came back. Usually, her long, black hair was sleeked back from her face with coconut oil and tied in a single braid, but whenever she was upset, she would loosen this to twist a strand around her right forefinger, then she would put her thumb into her mouth. It was a most peculiar mannerism, one which I have not seen adopted by anyone else. But I knew it meant she was troubled. When she stopped turning up for her reading lessons, I became really worried. I went to her hut to persuade her to come out but she wouldn’t. Her hut was small, dark and dank, and it seemed to suit her mood. She had even stopped going to work and simply sat in the corner, not wanting to bathe, not combing her hair, not eating, a flesh-and-blood human being turned to wood. Broken dreams and sadness hung like a pall in the air.

  “Aiiyah!” Letchumi grumbled, banging aluminum pots about. “What for behave like this, one? At least got chance to get out of this village. Your uncle is better off, give you nice-nice home. You cry too much, eyes go puffy-puffy, then who wants you, huh? Where you got chance to get married if like that? When we born as women, we know this our life, why make so bad-bad? That’s all we are fit for. Just face it, lah!”

  That’s all we’re fit for. Letchumi’s words seared my mind. It was the simple philosophy of village women. Paravthi’s fate could have been mine. In that instance, I was ever so grateful to my mother for daring to think differently. My mother, who at this moment can no longer think for herself, at that time, was able to realise that I would follow her fate as a woman if I was not educated, the cycle of women being dominated going on-and-on. Where did she derive this wisdom and foresight? I am indebted to her for eternity for making such efforts to create a different future for me. It was no small achievement for her. She had to fight the conventions of her time. And my father.

  One morning, some weeks later, a shrill cry woke us. It was coming from Letchumi’s hut. The natural thought was that Gopal was suffering another epileptic fit, although Letchumi usually shouted for my mother’s help rather than screaming in this manner. My mother and other villagers rushed to Letchumi’s hut. Somehow I was certain that it wasn’t anything to do with Gopal. I knew. I already knew. My heart had already rolled into a tight ball when my mother came home and told me about it. I was ready for what she was going to say before she even said it. I had already felt it in my bones. Letchumi found Parvathi’s cold body when she tried to wake her. Parvathi had taken all of Gopal’s sleeping pills. She had escaped her mortal bonds.

  However much you believe in the after-life and reincarnation, it doesn’t help when someone you love leaves this life. You may believe that their soul is better off but you still miss their physical presence. It was the first death I had to face and I couldn’t face it. I refused to go to see her until the day of the funeral. I could not bear the weight of it. I tried to read but Parvathi’s face kept flashing in front of the pages. Whatever I did, her sad tearful eyes followed me everywhere. Why hadn’t her mother stood up to her father? Why were women so weak? Then with a gasp, it suddenly occurred to me that my mother had just saved me from Parvathi’s fate. Because somehow, I know that if I couldn’t run away when I was of marriageable age, I, too, would have taken Parvathi’s path if my father had forced me to marry a man of his choice.

  I could not avoid confronting the situation forever. I wanted to remember her as she had been but I also knew that I had to say my last goodbye. It was the day of her funeral and I knew I had to steel myself to see her for the last time. My dearest childhood friend. I promised myself not to cry. In a way, she helped because when I looked upon her face, it had a stillness and peace that I knew she had longed for. I can still see her face today as she lay there in her cheap, open coffin, her hands clasped at her waist. Her tension and grief had flowed out with the life force and so her face was serene, she looked as if she was only asleep, a kind of Indian Snow White. Colorful petals of myriad flowers were strewn all over her body which was wrapped in a white cotton sari, virginal to the end. On her forehead was a circlet of small flowers, the kind that Indians loved in garlands for the statues of their Gods. Someone had coloured her cheeks with henna, placed the puttu which marked her third eye. She looked like a young bride. Her closed eyes were deep in their sockets and she looked really peaceful, no sign of struggle or anguish. In some way, I was glad for her, that she was spared a life with her gross uncle. The women were wailing loudly, hands in the air in gestures of helplessness. Parvathi’s father didn’t even bother to attend, so angry was he to have the dowry snatched from him. They told me that Parvathi was going to be burned on a pyre, that was why the coffin would not be closed. I pushed the image from my mind, of her body going up in flames, the body that had brushed mine, the arms that had held mine.

  Standing there, looking down at her, I thought how beautiful she was. I thought how, in another time and place, some handsome prince would have arrived on his white steed and swept her off her feet. And then they would ride away into the sunset, Parvathi sitting on the horse with the prince, his arms around her as she gazed up at him with a smile, her long, black hair flowing in the wind. Then suddenly, I knew that I wanted to give her a present, send something after her spirit. Chinese people burn paper houses, cars, servants and money so that when the deceased got to the Other Side, they have all the things they would need, sometimes even things they didn’t have in their mortal lives, like Rolls Royces and mansions. I knew what Parvathi would have liked. I rushed back to my house and brought out the novel by Barbara Cartland which I had secreted in my mattress roll, so that my father would not find it. I waited for an opportunity. The women were still crying, especially Letchumi. The moment came when Letchumi suddenly fell into a faint. People rushed to help her and during the scuffle, the coffin was unattended. That was when I picked up Parvathi’s cold-cold hands and slipped the book into them, then quickly rearranged the flower petals to conceal her favourite love story. Perhaps she’d find her prince, her soulmate, the man of her dreams on the Other Side and he’d kiss her awake.

  Twelve

  A long time later, when I felt able to talk about it, I brought up the subject of Parvathi’s suicide to my mother. Even at that age, I was convinced that Parvathi needn’t have died if she was living in another time and place, where women had choices. I was so mad that men seemed to have so much power over women. In writing this, I am also learning more about myself. In my childhood years, I have seen the way women, like my mother, Letchumi and Parvathi were treated and I must have somehow registered this in my mind. It makes me want to prove that a woman is capable of looking after herself without the beneficience of men. It makes me unable to tolerate the bullying nature of men. I had to leave my first husband because he would have made me a product of his whims, shaped me to his limitations, tied me to his insecurities. My mother had invested too much in me for me to allow myself to be a prey to all she had fought to be free from. I fought not just for myself, but for my mother and all oppressed women in the world. All those years, ago, after Parvathi died, I didn’t know that something had shifted i
n me, the something which made me look at men in a different way, made me wary of their power over women. Perhaps it was the time too, when the seeds of frustrations and anger had sprouted inside me and I looked at my father, not just with a daughter’s eyes, but with a growing woman’s eyes, of some of his unpardonable behaviour towards my mother. I wanted to stand up to my father for my mother, wanted to make him realise that he could not wield his tongue or his fists at his will. But I was brave only in thoughts.

  “Bor eng! (Useless!)” My father said to me, time and time again. “So fat and dark. Di tiang ai? (Who wants you?) How can fetch big dowry?”

  Harsh words flung repeatedly at you are like a sculptor’s chisel, they chip at your self-esteem, shape you into something you were not in the beginning. Whilst my mother made me believe that I could be somebody in this world, my father showed me the opposite mirror. In it, I saw a fat, ugly little girl, totally unlovable, totally untalented.

  That day, when I finally broached my mother about Parvathi’s death, she and I were beading Peranakan slippers to sell. Fewer and fewer women were wearing the slippers and machines were coming up with imitations far cheaper than what we could make, so our earnings from these were dwindling. At my mention of Parvathi, Mak sighed, then pushed back a stray bit of hair from her yet unlined brow and looked at me with those eyes of hers which never failed to stir me with their beauty.

  “Maybe she finished her schooling for spirit already. We are born so that our spirit can speak, lah ,” she said. “This life is big school for learn-learn. But usually, if take own life, must come back and come back until we complete our lessons.”