by Carissa Foo
But her mind kept drifting to another scene: the little girl in her pink dress, which had become shredded and ash-ridden, standing in the middle of a grey ruined city with wrecked buildings and rubble surrounding her, with no father in sight, no Lulu beside her. Despite her good intentions, Mrs Dada was looking at the outside world, at Lulu and little Mary’s world, through an opaque and sturdy lens that, framed and painted with privilege, could neither be polished nor broken by its wearer. Behind the invisible glass, a tear was forming in her eye.
III
Cheryl Dada was half-yawning when Vikash came up to her.
“Good afternoon, Madam Cheryl,” he said enthusiastically, flashing a wide smile. His teeth were pristinely white.
“Hello, Vikash,” said Cheryl Dada.
His hand was in his pocket, jangling the keys. “Madam, I going to collect fruits for the kitchen. For tonight dinner. Then after that I go pick up the day care clients.”
“Oh,” said Cheryl Dada, “I thought dessert is catered—”
“Yah, they suppose to do that,” he said, keeping his poster-boy smile. “But the almond jelly too sweet. Then the fruit cocktail—the can type—Miss Lina say also cannot. She say too sweet for residents. So Mr Song and the kitchen going to do fruit salad.”
“Ling Na,” Cheryl Dada corrected him. Of course she would object to it, she thought to herself. That woman said no to tau sar piah, orh nee, tau suan, bubur char char, tau huay. Even chin chow with longan was not allowed. They were either too sweet or too cooling. “Cannot, cannot. This one not good for you,” she nagged. “That one too much sugar.” She kept repeating how bad the sweets were for them that even Poh Choo, the most forgetful of the women, was starting to remember that she had diabetes.
What a killjoy. Maybe because she was not from around here, Ling Na did not understand what these traditional desserts meant to them. Cheryl Dada’s favourite dessert was chendol: partly because of the coconut milk, mostly because she remembered juicing pandan leaves and making those green slippery jellies with her grandmother. Ling Na’s sugar-free desserts and fruits were very healthy but brought no pleasure and brought back no memories. Other approved desserts included a variety of unsweetened soups: peanut soup, ginger soup, green bean soup and sweet potato soup. Cheryl Dada did not like soups. They made her pee a lot in the night. Ling Na was the food police, and Cheryl did not like her one bit.
“Her name is Ling Na,” Cheryl Dada repeated, looking at the young man to make sure that he got it.
“Yes, Madam,” Vikash said, his jovial smile faded to an embarrassed grin. The Chinese names were the toughest to get right. They did not pronounce his name correctly either but that didn’t matter to him. It was a language difference and Vikash knew it wasn’t their fault.
“Miss Ling Na say…” Vikash paused to find on the old woman’s face the permission to continue. He went on: “Miss Ling Na say the dessert cannot. So I going to get fruits. Mr Song want watermelon, oranges, pineapple and honeydew. Madam, you want anything? I can get for you.”
Yes, Cheryl Dada was tempted to oblige. It was just like Mr Song to come up with such a boring fare. Watermelon and honeydew… What was he thinking? Tonight’s a party, not a Chinese banquet! How about passion fruit for a change? Or pomegranates for antioxidants? Some New Zealand kiwis would be great as well. She could almost hear Daniel say, “No, that is too expensive.” “No, we don’t have the funds for that.” And of course the market on Avenue 10 would not have passion fruit or anything exotic, so Vikash would have to make a stop at Cold Storage.
But there was no Cold Storage in Ang Mo Kio. That’s for atas people, Cheryl thought, and conjured up images of Cold Storage in Great World City, Takashimaya, United Square, Cluny Court, Jelita—areas in which she had never resided and did not want to visit. Yet, isn’t Ang Mo Kio atas enough? Isn’t the “ang mo” in Ang Mo Kio the same as ang moh?
Cheryl organised Ang Mo Kio in her head. There was Avenue 1, where Bishan Park was; Avenue 2—that was where St Joan’s used to be; Avenue 3 was the Ang Mo Kio Central area, and the street across was Avenue 8. The markets helped her to sort out Avenues 4, 9 and 10. Avenue 6 was easy to remember: it had a big mosque. Cheryl was not familiar with Avenue 5—she thought it was where the industrial buildings and factories were. And then there was Avenue 7; Avenue 7 was the home.
Ang Mo Kio was a huge area—possibly the biggest residential town in Singapore, also one of the oldest. Yet there was not a single Cold Storage. The best they got was the Hypermart—not even an NTUC Finest!—that carried Australian broccolis and SunGold kiwis.
Cheryl considered if she’d like some kiwis for tonight, but decided that the yellow flesh looking like vomit was not a good colour. The Hypermart served the Ang Mo Kians well. Cheryl liked it. Not forgetting that it supplied her favourite Aseel dates. These were not the run-of-the-mill variety but were the best of Sindh, organic and super fleshy, quite like the ones she had bought from Aabpara Market years ago. Cheryl couldn’t remember the last time she visited Islamabad and what had brought her there in the first place, but the buttery sweetness of the dates stayed with her.
Should she ask Vikash to make a stop at NTUC? The dates were tempting. But no, that was not part of his job. Vikash is not a driver, Cheryl reminded herself. He is a HCA, she said silently, reading the badge that was clipped to his shirt. The letters arranged themselves in her mind: Health and Community Administration? Head of Community Activities? Vikash must be in charge of something to do with the community, but she could not say exactly what. She only knew he was not a driver.
Vikash, too, was confused about his job. He often thought of himself as a driver, though he wasn’t part of FM. For he was most comfortable behind the wheels. He volunteered to collect the medical supplies; deliver documents; fetch people to and from the MRT station; bring Lucky to the vet; pump petrol at the Shell station that was two blocks away. These trips were like excursions around the city; they made him feel excited about being here. Going on the CTE, driving out of Ang Mo Kio, Vikash had this odd sense of space expanding. In the van, he could steer the direction of his life, he had control for those 20 or so minutes. He was, at the very least, moving. It was nice to be reminded that the world was more than this white and blue building in the heart of Ang Mo Kio. That life continued outside the home.
Keys bulged in his pocket; there was another bunch dangling from his belt. Those were the keys to his house in Vellore, all three were rustic and looked heavy. He kept them with him, just in case. Vikash was always on standby, even when he was not on duty.
He wasn’t always like that: alert and ready. From the time he had applied for this job to waiting for his work permit to be approved, Vikash was mostly apprehensive. He thought the application would be rejected and he would instead move to Chennai or Kochi—he heard that they were building hotel boats there and more jobs were opening up. But his Appa was confident, especially since Dr Achari had promised to vouch for him. It did not seem to bother Appa that Vikash had no experience in healthcare. His brothers, Venkat and Vasu, were already in Delhi training to become experts in the construction industry even though they knew nothing about building. It was Vikash’s turn: he was 18.
Appa believed that Vikash would have a better chance at life if he left India; Amma wanted him out of her sight after what he had done to his sister. Vikash had to leave, and Singapore was a door swung wide open.
When Venkat and Vasu said Singapore was a good place, they were telling Appa and Amma the truth. Yes, there was more money to earn. There was always work to do: new roads to build and old roads to fix. They said it was multi-racial and inclusive, a land of opportunities. They reported that there were many Indians in Singapore and most of them did not speak Hindi, which was fine by them since they preferred to speak Tamil. There was a place called Little India where they could get a big bowl of koozh for about 80 rupees. They said the Chinese people had their own version that was really just rice and water and it was more expensive�
��at least 150 rupees. They said life was good in Singapore, though they couldn’t wait to go home.
What Venkat and Vasu did not say—and what Vikash later found out for himself but also would not say—was how they had to work on the roads in the rain because not working on rainy days was counted as forced leave. They said they ate well, that the curry here was good; what they meant was the curry gravy made the dry rice more palatable. They said they had their own space; but they would not say that home was a makeshift dormitory made from a container block. They said it was quiet, much like their village back home; a place called Lim Chu Kang.
What Vikash could not see back there in India, and what he was beginning to see now after being here for six months, was that being truthful was not the same as telling the truth. Appa and Dr Achari seemed to have understood the principle of truth much earlier. Like when the agent called and asked for a certificate, Appa immediately went to consult with Dr Achari, who wrote back with a written account of the day Vikash had helped to attend to the patient who had a gash in her head from a road accident. Dr Achari was right to say that Vikash tried to stop the bleeding with his shirt and whatever cloth he could find, and even antisepticised the open wound. He added that Vikash performed CPR on the patient, compressing her chest with so much force that caused two fractured ribs. That shows dedication to save lives, explained the doctor. Even though he was not a certified nurse, Vikash responded quickly and appropriately in an emergency and demonstrated potential to be an outstanding healthcare assistant. Everything in the testimonial was true; Dr Achari told the truth of what happened that day.
But if it were up to Vikash, he would have told them that the patient was Vani. That he too was bleeding when he brought her in; that his hands were covered in both their blood when he pressed on her chest; that he had retched when they carried her away. But the agent did not need to know that.
Why should it matter how he got here? thought Cheryl Dada, looking at the man who was too young to be the Head of Community Activities. He did not need to explain himself; it did not matter to her how he became a HCA. Vikash was very hardworking and took the initiative to deliver stuff and drive people around. That was all that mattered.
“No, I don’t need anything,” said Cheryl Dada, as though to assure him.
“What?” said Vikash distractedly.
“I mean I don’t want any fruits.”
Vikash stared blankly at her. His arms down along the sides of his body stiffened as he remembered Vani’s weightless body.
“I said it’s okay. Don’t buy anything for me,” said Cheryl Dada, with patience. “You’d better go now, before the market closes.”
“Yes, Madam. Yes, I go now,” Vikash finally uttered, realising that she was concerned for him.
“Thank you, Madam,” he said, stretching his smile, as the last of his words petered out, as he turned towards the iron gate.
Cheryl Dada was pleased with herself. She had paid enough attention to him to notice that he was not as happy as his smile. It was a professional front: the kind of smile one puts on in order to look casual and approachable, the kind that wipes away the sadness of being human. But one can only hold a smile for so long. After that it is just lip service. Smiles are too precious, she thought. Vikash should only smile when he’s happy. Nobody should be obliged to smile. If he keeps smiling like that, he’ll forget what it feels like to be truly happy. That boy has not been happy in a long time, thought Cheryl Dada, watching Vikash’s silhouette slowly diminishing until it went into the van.
As Mrs Dada was thinking of teeth and lips and smiles, Lulu, who had finished setting the tables, sidled up to her.
“Time to—”
The beeping sound of the Casio watch startled them. Mrs Dada turned and was dismayed to see Lulu. Lulu glanced back at her, hoping she would understand that she did not mean to interrupt her; but Mrs Dada grimaced and looked away, refusing to turn off the hourly chime. The beeping went on.
The next few seconds they stood side by side in silence. Cheryl Dada looked fixedly at the two pigeons that were prancing on the road. Orangey feet, she noted; even the albino one has orange feet. It looked like a dove. She thought it might be a sign from God that tonight would be peaceful.
Lulu lowered her head. Her eyes focused on the medicine cup in her hand. The pills were white and clean. The Metformin looked like a regular Panadol. If only they made it smaller and more colourful, Lulu thought, perhaps it’d be easier to get Madam to take them.
Or if they made them sweet like cough syrup—like Pi Pa Gao, Cheryl Dada continued in her head. Better still if they came in the form of an energy drink that she could gulp down. Pharmaceutical science needs to be more creative and considerate, she thought.
In spite of the dissimilitude of minds, the scene was convivial, as if Mrs Dada and Lulu were discharged from the lives they had been living and were presently standing on the same path, tethered to the same mind. Cheryl Dada was 21 years older and Lulu was the woman who took care of her; but for the span of the moment they were equal; two women yoked together; differences levelled.
Their lives were shaped by the home, both in a moral and physical sense. There was an order that the women had to follow.
0630 to 0730—Shower and grooming
0730 to 0900—Breakfast
0900 to 1000—Morning exercise and OT/PT
1000 to 1100—TV
1100 to 1230—Lunch
1230 to 1430—Community activity (including but not limited
to gardening, shopping at Ang Mo Kio Hub, still-life painting,
cooking demonstration and tasting, Chinese dance, ukulele class
or pet-assisted therapy)
1430 to 1530—Tea and snack
1530 to 1630—Nap
1630 to 1730— Afternoon exercise and OT/PT
1730 to 1900—Dinner
1900 to 2000—TV
2000 to 2100—Supper
2100—Lights out
In a place where time was prescriptive, each hour written out like a blurb for a handbook titled Resident Focused Care Plan to ensure proper and healthy conduct, their inactivity was a quiet rebellion, a joint effort to switch things up, to loiter for a moment longer before following what was next on the schedule.
“Time to eat medicine,” Lulu resumed. The last beep of the watch sounded. She stared at the plastic cup of white pills in her hand. It was in the way of lunch.
Cheryl heard nothing. A fly buzzing, she thought. Lulu’s pleas were as unnecessary as the nuisance brown spots that popped up unannounced on her arms. She knew that to be nagged at was protective rather than punitive, but there was something in all that mollycoddling that irked her.
“Madam, eat your medicine,” said Lulu, trying a gentler tone.
“No, thank you,” said Mrs Dada.
“Madam, it’s one o’clock already. Faster eat then can go for lunch,” Lulu said, her smile waning. “Please, Madam. Later no more food ah. It’s already past lunchtime.”
“I will pass today,” Mrs Dada answered, and shifted her attention to the flats on the other side of the road.
“Most of them are vitamins, Madam. Not bitter at all. They good for you.”
Mrs Dada yawned.
Things were back to normal. It was as if they had not shared the passing moment. As if they never understood each other. What a nag, Mrs Dada thought. She wished for Lulu to go away.
“Madam, think of your bad leg and sore neck.”
Mrs Dada was annoyed. Does she think I’ve forgotten?
“Okay, never mind,” Lulu said, somewhat resignedly. On some level she pitied the woman for having to take so many pills at her age, but Lulu had her chores for the day to complete and she was at this moment famished. Her schedule for the afternoon depended on how persuadable Madam was.
“You know, no medicine, no food, right?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t be like that, Madam. If you don’t have it, you will—”
Did she mean—? But do people—can it really be? Will I really die from a drug underdose? Mrs Dada wondered, slightly tickled. Was there such a thing—the opposite of an overdose? That’ll be news: Woman Dies from a Fatal Underdose. Ha! Ha! What a quip. Just think about that—of all the ways to die, she dies from not having enough medicine. How unheroic. Better to fling herself out the window to be lifted by the air. Woman Dies from Flying. Now that would be an awesome headline—
Feeling bad about the words that slipped through her mind, Lulu turned away from her charge, and was willingly taken by the silvery sheen of the forks and spoons set neatly on the tables. Her eyes wandered involuntarily from one table to the next, following the trail of metals shimmering in the sun. That was her finished work, the work of her bare red-stained hands. All that squatting and bending over was sure to come back and bite her in old age. Or maybe tomorrow her muscles would start to ache. This was the kind of work she did at the home but it was not backbreaking work. Or foot stinking work. She remembered the skin on her father’s legs was perpetually wrinkled from prolonged soaking in the field, the stench of rotting flesh that filled up the house when he took off his boots.
Lulu felt sick to her stomach. The people here knew no hardship; Madam certainly did not. This was probably the hardest her life had ever been and it was not nearly a fraction of what her parents had to go through. Life was unfair; there was no denying it, no way to sugar-coat it. The world had a ranking in place and she was way below. People like Angelique Marie and Madam were high up. Life was unfair; she had accepted it. But why was God unfair too? He had to know that it was most hard for her to be away from her baby. Please don’t let it get any harder, Lulu prayed in silence, looking up to the sky.
Then, as if her God were real and listening, the thought of the 22,000 pesos that came in every month darted into her mind and Lulu broke into a smile. One day, she would have her own party with fancy silverware and tablecloths and candlelights. She and Magdalene would have the VIP table to themselves. They would be together again. Two more years, two more years, Lulu muttered to herself.
