Sugarbread
Page 1
Praise for Sugarbread
“This is the most glorious mic drop moment in Singaporean Literature. Sugarbread is such a tender and powerful response to the many celebrated voices in Singapore that represent minority experiences through tokenism or ignore them altogether. Balli Kaur Jaswal has made me feel like my ten-year-old self could be someone’s protagonist, like my skin belongs in the pages of books in my country. She’s turned the mirrors on Singapore and our conversations about identity in a spectacular fashion. Her prose is delicate, precise and aching. Her storytelling lingers with you for days. This novel is triumphant and absolutely essential reading for anyone who cares about living in this city.”
—Pooja Nansi, author of Love Is an Empty Barstool
“Sugarbread is a warm and wry portrait of childhood, in all its intensity and its confusions, and a deeply satisfying exploration of prejudice, conscience, loyalty and reconciliation.”
—Jolene Tan, author of A Certain Exposure
“A beautifully written companion piece to Inheritance. Balli Kaur Jaswal uses the eyes of a young girl from Singapore’s Sikh community to revision life in the city-state, and explore overlapping conflicts centred on ethnicity, nationalism, religion, social inequality, and gender. As the story progresses, these tensions are elaborated in the life stories of Pin and of her mother, embodied in the everyday rituals of cooking and eating, and only resolved through an accounting with a hidden past of exclusion and abuse.”
—Philip Holden, Professor of English, National University of Singapore
“Pin is an earnest and enchanting child, through whose curious and clear-sighted eyes we see family life and complications and childhood cliques and racism. But this entertaining book also has touching insights into love, hope and wisdom and characters that will stay with you long after you finish it.”
—Ovidia Yu, author of Aunty Lee’s Chilled Revenge
“Balli Kaur Jaswal has written a profoundly moving story that is both a sensitive family portrait and a wild page-turner. With arrestingly vivid prose and carefully wrought characters, she draws readers into the world of ten-year-old Pin as she negotiates her Sikh faith and grapples with startling secrets. This is wonderfully crafted novel about food, faith and family.”
—Pooja Makhijani, author of Mama’s Saris and editor of Under Her Skin: How Girls Experience Race in America
“Movingly told, the narrative grips as it reveals the trials, tribulations and anxieties experienced by the growing protagonist as she learns secrets of her family in a multi-ethnic Singapore. Here is a powerful new literary voice in Singaporean fiction—and a voice that must be heard.”
—Kirpal Singh, poet and creativity guru
“An elegant, evocative work that brings the seemingly-mundane world of everyday Singapore to magical life, drawing you in with its details and delights, inviting you to see things with the protagonist’s eyes…and then insisting that you feel things with her heart though it may break your own to do so. A touching, poignant tale.”
—Krishna Udayasankar, author of The Aryavarta Chronicles
SUGARBREAD
BALLI KAUR JASWAL
A NOVEL
Copyright © 2016 by Balli Kaur Jaswal
Author photo courtesy of Balli Kaur Jaswal. Used with permission.
All rights reserved
Published in Singapore by Epigram Books
www.epigrambooks.sg
Published with the support of
National Library Board, Singapore
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Name: Jaswal, Balli Kaur.
Title: Sugarbread : a novel / Balli Kaur Jaswal.
Description: Singapore : Epigram Books, 2016.
Identifiers: OCN 946808942
ISBN 978-981-4757-30-0 (paperback)
ISBN 978-981-4757-31-7 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Punjabis (South Asian people)–Fiction.
Families–Fiction. | Teenage girls–Fiction.
Classification: DDC S823–dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Edition: June 2016
For my mum, aunties and grandmothers
PART I
1
1990
IT WAS SINGAPORE and it was July. The early morning sun glowed orange and rose between the high buildings; streams of light poured through the still branches of trees and heat rose from the pavement. Ma and I walked in the shade under rows of canvas awnings. All around us, tin grilles were released and unfolded. They rattled loudly, like trains running right over my ears. Shopkeepers grimaced as they dragged out shelves and crates filled with Gardenia bread, jars of coconut kaya, sweet pandan bread, sticky pink cupcakes called huat kueh, packets of prawn crackers, buns plump with red bean filling, and Twisties snacks. These few things could endure the sun.
The shops were shadowy and cool caves inside. There were refrigerators for milk packets, and freezers for popsicles and Paddle Pop ice cream. The first few customers shifted sideways like crabs through the narrow aisles. Tall sacks of rice lay slouched in the back as if taking a break from the morning heat. Above them, red altars on the walls glowed with offerings of oranges and burning joss sticks. Some display cases were still chained and padlocked because it was early. The shopkeepers sighed as they squatted to fit their keys into the locks. They were always sighing; they were always tired.
Ma walked in brisk, long steps and I struggled to keep up. I had short legs. I was the smallest girl in my class. I thought she should understand this but whenever I reminded her, she became impatient and said, “You’ll grow, Pin.” She had always been long-legged and elegant, so she could not sympathise. But being a little slower had its benefits. I noticed things while Ma just hurried along, and this was why she took me with her to the market. There were less crowded routes through the void decks of housing blocks but Ma preferred passing the shops because I could spot discounts. I had good eyes, and I added and subtracted quickly. Daddy called this “having good senses”, and I liked to think that God gave me good senses deliberately to make up for what I lacked in height.
I looked out for deals from the shops, hoping that Ma would remember that she needed something and we could delay our trip to the wet market, even if it was only for a few minutes. “They are selling clothespins,” I called out. Ma slowed down. I pointed to a basket sitting outside one odds and ends shop. This one was not as organised as the others. The old couple that owned it always looked puzzled when customers asked them for a set of anything. They sold every item individually—hangers, nails, pencil lead, paper towels, Tiger Balm. Ma called it the One-By-One shop, although its actual name, as printed on the sign above the stall, was Lee’s Goods. I pointed at a tray sitting outside, filled to the brim with wooden and plastic clothespins. CLOTH PEG ONE FOR FIVE CENT.
“We don’t need any,” Ma said after reading the sign. Then she picked up her pace, leaving me to skip again to catch up with her.
“I like Twisties,” I said, eyeing the bags on display outside another shop.
“Twisties are rubbish,” Ma replied and I knew then that there was no more delaying. We were going to the wet market and we were going now.
On Sunday mornings, Ang Mo Kio smelled faintly like smoke and something sweet. On the short walk to the market, it was always these two smells—something burning and something tempting. The heavy smell of burning came from the smoke that rose from woks in nearby 24-hour coffee shops where red plastic chairs lay strewn around lopsided white tables. The smoke carried the aroma of onions and garlic sizzling in oil, rice noodles being fr
ied in oyster sauce, softening vegetables stewing with chopped garlic, eggs and butter and dough, watery coconut gravy and fish curry. The sweet smell did not necessarily come from food, although it was overwhelming when we passed the Happy Garden Bakery with its gleaming display cases filled with chocolate mousse cakes and multi-layered kueh lapis. There was another kind of sweetness in the Sunday air. It came from the potted bougainvillea lined neatly along the paths, body lotion and deodorant mingling with sweat, morning greetings from one woman to another, the money being counted at the 4D lottery shop, the new rubber and leather at the bicycle shop. There was nothing else in the world like our neighbourhood on a Sunday morning. I had lived there my whole life. I was ten years old.
As we approached the wet market, both scents gave way to something else, a bitter taste that started in my throat. It was like this every time. Fear tightened my insides and turned my limbs into lead. I couldn’t move or call out to Ma as she continued walking. Eventually, she looked over her shoulder and backtracked, her features crumpled with irritation.
“Come now. You’re not going to get lost,” Ma said.
I always clutched Ma’s hand whenever we entered a crowded place—the shopping malls in the city, the rows of hawker centres in Ang Mo Kio Central, the bus interchange—but sometimes, without realising it, she lost me. She never admitted it. A year ago, we went to the pasar malam down the street. Lanterns filled the ink-black sky like small moons and Chinese music crackled from loudspeakers. Shopkeepers shouted out prices for dresses, toys and cotton candy everywhere we went. I remembered feeling Ma’s hand slip from mine as she drifted towards a good bargain. People filled the small space between us the way floodwater rushes into a gutter. She found me within a few minutes but in my mind, it had been hours, a lifetime. When I told her that she had let go first, she grew cross and asked, “Why would I do a thing like that?”
I could already feel the heat on my back now, sweat gluing my thin T-shirt to my skin. Around us, customers moved in different ways. Some sped past us in clapping sandals, others roamed heavily. There were straight backs, stooped backs, loose blouses and clinging T-shirts. I saw every shade of skin colour and the fine green veins that decorated the backs of knees. I saw jutting anklebones and flimsy rubber slippers. “Aiyah!” a man cried as his slipper came loose and skidded across the wet floor to land in a shallow corner gutter. I caught a glimpse of his eyes as they searched wildly for the person who had tripped him. I hid behind Ma in case he thought it was me but the fury only lasted a few seconds; he seemed to realise that if he did not keep moving, he would not get anything done. He ran to the gutter, pushed his foot back into the slipper and hurried along as if nothing had happened.
“Hold my hand,” Ma said. I did as she told. “Now, what do you do?”
“Keep holding your hand.”
“And what should you not do?”
“Panic.”
“Or?”
“Cry,” I said, a little bit softer because I was embarrassed.
“Ready?’ she asked
I nodded and she brought me in. As the market rushed towards us, my first instinct was to twist away from Ma’s grip and run away. Ma knew this—her grip tightened. There was no escape. The world became a stirring sea of people, voices and colours. It took time for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and for my nose to adapt to the dampness and the smell of blood mixed with flowers mixed with incense mixed with ripe fruit. We had entered through a narrow lane between a makeshift orchid shop and a poultry stall where skinned chickens hung by their beaks on C-shaped hooks. The greyish-pink shade of their pimply skin was sickening so I rested my gaze on another stall selling incense and paper money for burning and offering to ancestors. Further down, an elderly woman stood on a short stool and pointed at a tank crowded with grey crabs, their claws tightly bound with pink raffia string. They flipped and tumbled over each other, tapping steady threats against the glass. Their eyes were black beads.
There was no order here. All of Singapore was tidy and clean but the market was another world. I preferred the neat aisles and air-conditioning of the NTUC supermarket in Ang Mo Kio Central but Ma insisted that nothing was good unless it was fresh from the wet market. She glided through the lanes with ease. At each stall, Ma negotiated with the swing of her hips. I could deal with the chaos of the market if I just followed her movements but I had to be careful not to let her see. Ma worried most when I walked like her.
That morning, Ma had woken me up by opening the door of my room and calling my name. “Pin,” she said softly. I was already awake. Sunlight entered the room through the slats of my blinds. She closed the door and I listened to her feet moving quickly through the flat. My bedroom faced the main corridor of our building and on weekend mornings, I liked to watch the shadows of passers-by and match them to the neighbours. There was the young Malay woman who lived with her elderly parents. She was tall and bony, with short spiky hair. A family of four lived all the way at the end of the hallway. The mother always carried the baby who added a lump to her silhouette. The toddler was too short to reach my window but I recognised the father’s slouched figure as he guided him along.
“Pin.” Ma opened the door again and was at the foot of my bed. “Wake up. Shower. Get dressed. I’m buying a lot of things today. I need you to help me carry bags from the market.” I peeked at her through the thin sheets. Slender waist, hips jutting like narrow shelves—the shape of Ma.
“Five minutes,” I mumbled.
Another shadow passed the window very slowly. I had to sit up to determine who it was. A sudden breeze pushed the blinds and distorted the outline. Ma came bursting into the room again even though it had not yet been five minutes. “Pin!” she exclaimed as though she had just caught me stealing. The shadow paused, startled by Ma’s voice, then continued on its way. I pushed myself out of bed and got into the shower before I began to grumble so the water would muffle my words.
As I sat in her room and watched her powder her face and smooth out a small crinkle in her blouse, my irritation faded. Ma was too glamorous for the market. She insisted on wearing proper clothes; nothing fancy, but nothing she would only wear at home either. Most of the housewives who went to the market wore rubber sandals and baggy batik shorts with T-shirts. They did not comb their hair. Ma flipped her hair over and brushed it until it rested about her face like a dark cloud. When she disappeared into the bathroom, I tried to do the same but the brush got stuck in my curls. Another attempt didn’t work—I had Daddy’s hair and none of Ma’s grace.
Now Ma’s grip shifted away from my hand. I tugged her skirt to remind her. She nodded as if to say that she hadn’t forgotten me, she was just looking in her purse for something.
“Fish stall first. Get it over with,” Ma said. I let out a soft groan, then tried to hold my breath, but it was pointless. The fishmonger fanned his face with his hands as he called out prices. Fish with open mouths and glassy eyes lay in rows on trays filled with ice. Their fins fanned out like the ends of brooms. There were larger fish, whiter fish, fish with what looked like sharp long beaks. The sharp metal smell of blood was everywhere.
When the fishmonger saw Ma, he grinned and asked her in Malay, “Hello, would you like some fish?”
“Yes. Two first then tell me the price.”
The man weighed two limp pieces of fish. “Eight dollars.”
Ma squinted at the man to see if he was being truthful. After a moment, she said “Okay, then one more.”
I made a face. I hated fish and this meant Ma would be frying some for dinner soon. The man caught my expression and laughed. “Your daughter,” he said, more as a statement than a question. I smiled at him. I liked it when people recognised I was Ma’s daughter.
“Yes,” Ma said. “Thank you.” She took the plastic bag from him and handed it to me. I slipped my wrist through the handles and let the bag sag from the weight, not caring if it broke. Ma trusted me with meat and vegetables; she carried eggs and heavy fruits on her
own.
All four major languages were spoken at the market. The air was filled with Chinese syllables, swift as brushstrokes. Some of the older stallholders could speak in Malay. The dark-skinned man who sold chopped mutton negotiated in rapid Tamil. Some stallholders spoke uncertainly in broken English while others were forceful in their bad grammar. My family spoke Punjabi—a language that most people in Singapore didn’t even know existed—and we used this to our advantage. At the fruit stall, Ma instructed me in Punjabi to inspect the redness of the apples while she tested the oranges for firmness. I was short enough to reach for them without having to bend towards the basket. Ma didn’t like to show too much interest; to lean was to show need, and we didn’t need to pay more than necessary for good fruit.
“They are ripe,” I confirmed softly, even though I was speaking in Punjabi and the fruit seller wouldn’t understand. We encountered very few Punjabi people unless we were at temple; if we saw them anywhere, we pretended not to because Ma didn’t like to stop and chat. She said that most Punjabis were always looking for some gossip to bring home and even the most harmless bit of information could become national news in their hands.
“Sure? Look carefully.” Ma replied. She eyed the stallholder.
“I’m sure,” I said. The apple in my hand was round and ripe. I pressed my thumb into the skin and made a small dent.
Ma nodded and bought a few. The fruit seller was a delicate woman with a mess of short curly snow-white hair. As she handed the change to Ma, I could see her knuckles poking out of her pale skin.
“I’m tired,” I announced to Ma as we moved to the next stall. The end of the market was still far away. There were leafy vegetables to be inspected, beans to be handpicked and chicken thighs to be weighed and packed. “I’m very tired,” I said.
If Ma heard me, she pretended not to. I watched her bargaining like a Singaporean. “Give me same price but bigger one lah,” she told the man who carefully cut slim slices of tofu from a larger slab. Ma was like my teachers at school—she didn’t approve of Singlish but she couldn’t help but use it sometimes. Usually when she spoke to strangers, she was crisp like a Channel Five newscaster. But proper English impressed nobody at the market—it made the prices go up. I had pointed out to Ma once that her nice clothes probably made the stallholders think we were wealthy, but looking tidy was something which she would not compromise.