by Yap Swi Neo
‘Darling, you are the sole decision maker of what to do with my ashes. I love you and trust you will know what to do with me as a “DECEASED”.’
I wish she would tell me what she would like. I feel burdened, guilty I may be doing the ‘that’s not what I wish’. Does she know my thoughts and feelings when I am ‘single and available’ as she puts it, when proposing ‘You may want to marry my husband’ to her BFF, and in particular to her sister? Does she think I will get over her after it’s all over, and cast my desires elsewhere? I am angry imagining she thinks that of me. Is that her intent? Or that she thinks I am not able to be alone.
Her sister and I talk. ‘What is it like to live alone, to sleep alone, be alone, eat alone, feel alone?’ I ask.
‘I’m never alone, lonely sometimes when I lost my soulmate,’ she replies, looking me straight in the eyes. ‘We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone. But I am never alone. I had my husband and her and you. Are you alone?’ Gently she touches my hand.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s good for a person to spend time alone now and then. It is an opportunity to discover who you are without her. Maybe someday you will meet someone who actually complements your life and makes it enriching again.’
‘And you, what about you? Have you someone?’
‘Have you decided what to do with her ashes?’ She avoids the question.
‘We’ll scatter her ashes in the sea.’
‘She would like that, set her free to roam the seven seas, the free spirit she always is.’
‘The stamps. She has each country stamp in plastic bags to be given to the Philatelic Society. To be auctioned or sold and proceeds to Cancer Research.’
My wife smiles. She is happy the stamps issue is settled.
I watch my wife smile in her sleep. Is it sleep, as the sleep people do at night in bed? Or is she passing in and out between living and dying? I study her face, pale; her eyelids fluttering as in disturbed slumber; her mouth cringes: her breathing laboured.
She whispers, ‘At my funeral I want everyone to wear white please. White, pure like a cloud, floating high in the sky. I want everyone to let go of me like a cloud, transient.’ It takes me a long time to grasp what she says. It is hard to believe that she who is so important to me is not coming back.
What she says next makes me cringe. ‘Darling, OK if I have a small church service?’ I am numbed, shocked. Religion has not been a part of my life, and I never thought she is religious either. I do not know her as well as I thought.
‘Do you know?’ I demanded of her sister. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Secret visits to church? A conspiracy against me?’
‘The spouse is the soul of the other. Look into her personal drawer.’
There is a handheld, worn-out bible, many passages highlighted. Psalm 23 and Psalm 91 completely highlighted in yellow. What else do I not know? I feel pain and distress. How do I not know? Why did she not tell me? I hear her whisper, ‘I love you my darling.’ Does loving mean denying one’s needs? It is a frightening thought I might have been selfish, or blind, living in a different world.
I feel anger. I feel angry towards her, dying before her time. I feel angry for things we did or didn’t do. I feel angry she might not have told me all of her needs. What do I want, need, to say to her, in the middle of the night? As if she reads my thoughts, she whispers, ‘My darling, I love you till death do us part. Please my darling, be happy no more pain for me. We have been happy. Live for me.’
I remember the kind of life she wanted for me, a happy life. What kind of life does she want? Have I ever asked her? There is much longing to tell her how sorry I am, not understanding her needs. I wanted to cry, but the tears refuse to flow. Why am I speechless?
She holds my hand tight, ‘Hug me.’ I call her sister, she wants her sister here. Her sister wants to be here. We sit on either side of the bed. We hold hands, as in a triangle, a sort of Holy Trinity.
I fall asleep. Her sister shakes me awake. My wife is smiling, her eyes bright, open. She asks for apple juice. She turns to me, ‘Kiss me my darling. I love you.’ She turns to her sister, ‘Kiss me my darling, I love you.’ She clasps my hands to those of her sister, tells us to be happy, and bids us goodbye.
Kamani
Kamani was my Sri Lankan live-in domestic help (DH) in Singapore for 14 years. DHs were mainly Sri Lankans, Filipinas and Indonesians. They were poor and had little education. All came to Singapore to work as DHs to support their families at home.
Yes, madam. No, madam. Thank you, madam.
That was twenty-year-old Kamani when she first stepped into my house in 1984. The first time out of her comfort zone, a small village somewhere in the middle of Sri Lanka, not even noted in Philip’s Atlas of the World, an eleven-hour bus ride to Colombo to board a plane to a strange new place called Singapore. She was neatly dressed in a billowing ankle-length green skirt, a matching loose long-sleeve blouse that reached to her calf and a scarf thrown over her shoulders, and sandals.
Fourteen years later: ‘Madam, when I reach Cyprus I telephone you. And madam, I very happy to work in your house. Thanks for presents and everything.’ She returned the piece of jade pendant; her mother would see it as some valueless green stone and might throw it out. She hugged me, both of us fighting tears and then she was gone, gone from my household, my life.
What was it like to work in an unknown country, for an unknown employer, in an unknown culture and environment, with unknown work specifics? Her home agent had given her two postcards, one of the Singapore Botanic Gardens and the other of Orchard Road.
At my first meeting with Kamani, she courted me with her unblinking, huge, wide eyes, which revealed her fears and sudden loneliness in her strange new home, yet they seemed to challenge me. They seemed to say in a defiant way, probably to herself, ‘Well, this is the path I have chosen, and it is the right path.’ She held tightly on to her small well-worn brown tote bag, containing all her worldly possessions: four changes of clothes, some personal toiletries, a prayer book and a small statue of Lord Buddha. In sign language she told us Lord Buddha would take care of her, and nothing bad would happen.
Kamani was a petite girl, and her glossy black hair streamed down to her waist. No, her hair was never to be cut, only trimmed, her mother and grandmother had made her promise. It was neatly braided, into one long plait and twirled round into a neat bun with a blue ribbon interwoven into it, just above the nape. Within a week, she asked in sign language if she could pick a flower from one of my plants and decorate her hair with it. Her love for flowers, plants and gardening soon manifested itself when she took it upon herself to do the gardening, in the little garden that I had. Her high cheekbones perfectly matched her oval-shaped face. When she smiled, which she seldom did for the first six months, her beautiful white teeth glowed against her dark skin.
The first few months were difficult. She had never ever slept alone in a room, and for a while she slept with granny. We had communication problems, food problems, hygiene problems, and lots more problems. She had wanted to go home, but she had debts, and her family had strongly objected to her working abroad. She would face the wrath of her parents and be scorned by neighbours. No one in her village had been tempted by the recruiting agents’ promises of earning ‘good money’ in Singapore, leading to a luxurious life for the family, and an opportunity to ‘see the world’. The closest to seeing the world among her village community was the headman, when he went to Colombo for a meeting. He had captivating stories to tell, of moving staircases, where one had to only stand on a step and be moved up or down; of drinks in cans coming out of a huge box by the wall when a coin was put in; of the little box-like handheld ‘thing’ which switched the television on and off as well as to change channels, and many more. Kamani was mesmerized, wanting to see the world. She had insisted on going with the agent, and in return for her parents’ blessing, had promised them money to cement the mud floor of their house; to ‘bring electric ins
ide house’; to buy cows; a motorbike for father to sell the milk from the cows; for mother the gold chain she had yearned for, and many other promises. The fear of shame should she go home so soon was so devastating she decided to stay on. We had a translator, an Indian woman who worked in the agency that recruited Kamani, so we did ‘talk’.
She questioned, ‘Wash rice so many times? Wash one time can already.’ ‘Where got so many water? Why must pay water? We take well, no pay money.’ ‘Machine wash clothes? How machine know wash?’ ‘Flush toilet, waste water only. Dig hole and bury. Then vegetables all grow so nice.’ ‘How can body wash make body clean? Only soap make floor, plates, body, hair, window, dogs all clean.’ Then one day she said, ‘So hard!’ Two years later she reminded me that even though she had said ‘So hard!’ back then, it was no longer so. She enjoyed the hot shower, the convenience of the gas stove, the ice cubes in her ginger tea on hot afternoons. She experienced riding the escalator, the remote control of the television set, the drinks vending machine and marvelled at the ATM, ‘How money come out machine, who put money inside?’
The Singapore agent spoke to her three times a week in the first two months to ensure she had settled in. In her first month I asked her, in sign language and with materials, ‘Kamani, do you want to write a letter to your parents?’
‘No, madam. Thank you, madam. I tell agent, agent tell Sri Lanka agent, he tell my father. Everything good. Father got madam house number, telephone number. There, no post office. One man come to shop when got many letters for people. Father said no write. Lord Buddha take care of everything.’
Her first meal with me was chicken briyani,[1] as I thought she would be familiar with the dish. She couldn’t eat it, never saw it before. Butter? Kaya?[2] ‘No, madam.’ Most foods served were returned with, ‘No, madam. Thank you, madam.’ She relished her dhal, tomatoes, and bean curry and so we ate Sri Lankan food, very simple but very good and very healthy. I watched her preparing her favourite chickpea curry.
Her deft fingers sliced a small onion, a green chilli, tore two sprigs of curry laves, broke four dried chillies into pieces, measured a teaspoon of mustard seeds, cumin seeds. It was difficult to make her understand that the onion, chillies, and curry leaves had to be washed. In sign language she said, ‘No wash madam. No wash.’ I did not cherish Serangoon Road dust and creepy crawlies in my food. She had boiled the chickpeas the night before and they were soft and ready to cook. She heated the oil and fried the curry leaves.
I surprised myself how we could communicate and understand each other with a smattering of English and Sinhalese and finger work. Into hot oil toss the curry leaves. She smiled, thumbs up. It was so aromatic. In went the onion and salt. ‘Onion soft, madam.’ She added the chillies, cumin, mustard seeds. Her fingers jumped and her voice went pop-pop, pointing to the seeds. ‘Now chickpeas go inside, some grated coconut go in. Cook not so long. All cook already.’ Pointing to her mouth, ‘puri.’[3] In my home we ate rice.
We learnt from each other. We also needed the translator fewer times.
‘Kamani, this letter is for you.’ With excitement she read it. ‘Madam, everyone good. Father ask money some more. The money agent give all finish already, agent take some money. Father said send post office money. Post office keep money. Not money, money, madam. Money money never get.’ And so the bimonthly Post Office order was religiously observed.
‘Madam, contract near finish. Madam still want Kamani? But I go home first.’ That was Kamani’s first trip home, for three weeks, after two years.
‘Did you have a good time with your family Kamani?’
‘No, madam. At airport my family wait me. I so happy. There also one man I don know. My mother very angry I wear jeans. When reach home, she beat me. She take jeans and cut and cut and cut. Sisters and brothers all cry. The man just sit there. Then he go home. Morning come my mother say I no work in Singapore. I marry that man. But I don want. I keep passport in body. Nobody can get. Mother everyday scold. I tell madam keep money. I no go back, madam take money.’ So she continued her stay with me. We were comfortable with each other. She was eager to learn my cuisine.
‘Madam, my father put floor in house. Red cement, very nice.’ ‘Madam, my house now got electric lights. Mother very, very happy.’ ‘Madam, my father buy TV. Now no go shop. Other people come watch TV, give father some money, like shop, but less little bit. Father said some people no pay, stand outside window watch. Cannot close window, very hot.’ ‘Madam, my father buy two cows. Cows very good. Milk sell get money. Cows marry got baby, some more cows.’
‘Madam, shop near my house got telephone. I tell shop man what time I telephone, my family wait talk to me. Madam, I use your telephone can?
‘Madam, sister marry that man. Mother say I don want marry him, marry sister. I happy my sister marry. Mother ask buy so many things, sister marry must give many, many things. Buy gold chain, thick one, one hand long. Also must buy for mother-in-law, mother, grandmother. Sari, three sari sister wear marry, two give mother, two give mother-in-law, two give grandmother, one sister one and sister-in-law one. No need give presents. Mother say this give enough.’
‘That’s a lot of money, Kamani.’
‘Yes, Madam, I know. No buy everybody angry.’
We went to Serangoon Road[4] shops and noted the prices of saris and gold. ‘Madam, mother ask why money so many. Only buy give sister gold, two sari, mother one, mother-in-law one and grandmother one. Other people no need.’
‘Madam. I no go home after contract, can?’
The standard guidelines was to give her the price of the airfare and three weeks salary.
‘Brother want buy motor. Now got four cows got plenty of milk, got motor, brother sell more easy. I want buy gold chain, one bangle and one ring. I don have gold. Only buy for sister marry. Madam, family always ask for money. Now sister go hospital got baby, husband no money pay hospital.’
She decided that she would save more for herself, and send one month’s salary quarterly, to her parents. The milk was bringing in a good income.
Eight years later, she decided to take her second trip home. ‘Madam, mother so happy I going home. I go Deepavali. Five days enough madam. Mother find man tell me marry. I don want. Madam, you take many many pictures of my gold. I show mother gold. I tell madam keep. I no go back, madam take all. Money madam also take.
‘Madam, mother happy also sad I go home five days only. I cook chicken rice, mee siam,[5] and satay. Nobody eat. Mother so sad. She ask what I eat in madam’s house.
‘Madam, mother say sister mother-in-law no already. They want sell land and house. House four rooms one bathroom. No tap, we take water from well no pay. Got tap pay money. Now we bathe in the house. Got electric, TV set. I send money buy house. Yes, Madam, my money in bank enough. No, I no go home, I money keep. I put house in brother name. Yes, madam, don worry, my brother very good, no take.’
So Kamani now had a piece of property, fully paid in cash, lived in by her brother and his family, rent free.
‘Madam, see this picture in newspaper. This girl my friend Athula. We go out together. She go home already, work twelve years in Singapore. Newspaper say she buy wheelchair, new one give old people house. This Athula, this doctor, this old woman in her wheelchair. Athula say Singapore give very good money. Now she got house, money, some gold, her family happy, so she help old people. Wheelchair Singapore money $145. Madam, when I go home I give one wheelchair. I tell Buddha already.’
One evening Kamani surprised me. ‘Madam, I want see your church.’ From then on Kamani started her Catholic journey. She got a Sinhalese bible, and together we shared bible stories. She told me stories of her gods, how the gods created the earth, the sky, the sun, the moon, the people, animals and plants; how the gods protect as well as punish their peoples. Buddha is also very good. She concluded that Jesus is like Buddha and her gods.
‘Madam, I want go school. My friend go school, learn sewing at church. $60 six months, one month two t
imes, can?’ Her new Singer sewing machine with a foot pedal was a proud neighbour of the piano. When Kamani was ready to go home, she was able to sew simple blouses and children’s clothes. This new skill would bring in additional income.
Then, one day, Kamani revealed that she had been dating a very nice Indian man working as a gardener at the Botanic Gardens for the past two years. They planned to get married. However, her and his parents objected to the union. ‘Madam, mother say, I cannot go Sri Lanka if I marry Indian man. His mother also say same. How, Madam?’
The testimonial got her a job in Cyprus. She was certain she would be employed by a ‘good madam’. I always marvelled at foreign domestic help, most with minimal education, and little money on them, in debt, courageously marching into the world far removed from theirs, undaunted by the magnitude of the unknown, with perhaps only picture postcards of their intended destination, and with no support from the family. Kamani chose Cyprus.
‘Agent say Cyprus boyfriend easy find job. Canada very far, very cold. My new madam Catholic, like madam. They know speak English. I go first boyfriend go later. He no get job yet.’
Cyprus welcomed her. Her new home was a property on the cliff by the sea. Cold winds embraced her. Her employer treated her well. She had her own little ‘house’, a five-minute walk from the main house. She was given woollies, coats, boots, a beanie and gloves and a walkie-talkie. Her diet changed completely, from steamed pork, tofu and curry to salads, breads, roasts and soups. Her weekly share of two bottles of wine – a white and a red – were politely returned. She was happy.
‘Madam, this grandma just like madam’s mother. So good, like friend, not maid. We go church every morning. Everybody surprise, say my English very good. Also new grandma ask where I learn about Jesus.
‘Madam, happy birthday. Madam, I send madam four bottles wine, two red and two white. The wine here very nice.’ ‘Madam, Merry Christmas.’ ‘Madam, happy new year. When Chinese New Year? I not sure when, January or February. Calendar in Cyprus no Chinese New Year.
