Written by Yam Siew Mei.
"Long, long ago, in a faraway land, there lived a little boy with his grandmother in a small village," my father began his story.
"Where's the mummy?" I asked, as I snuggled closer to him.
With his arms folded behind his head, he fed my question: "Well, she's working at the farm with his father."
He continued in a whispering tone, "This boy is special. He has a special gift."
With a storyline like that, I was hooked like fish to bait. I was curious. I wanted to know the little boy's gift. I stared at my father with bated breath as he spun his tale.
"This boy cooks the best curry in the village."
Excuse me? Curry? Is this supposed to be a fairy tale? Imagine Cinderella scrubbing pots filled with curry stains. There I was a nine-year-old captivated by a supposedly "fairy tale" which my father had conjured up. He had been concocting stories all the years. I was so in love with stories - or maybe my father was such a good story-teller - that I couldn't even tell he was making them up.
But heck, that curry boy story was my all-time favourite from my dad's collection. Anyway, I did ask what curry he cooked best. Chicken curry, my father said, with a twinkle in his eyes. I laughed my head off. Every time I look at chicken curry, my thoughts go back to that story. You can't forget such outrageous and funny tale, ever.
I have always loved stories. Any story. My father was responsible for that, without even realising it. I remember when I was seven, he returned from a trip to Australia and gave me this sky blue book. It was the bluest of blues and on one page, a caveman was trying to make fire with two sticks.
I couldn't comprehend the facts in the book until years later: it was about human civilisation. I realised that my father had planted in me the seed to open my eyes and mind, and see the bigger picture of life. Personally, that was the best gift anybody could ever have given me.
I believe my father had this tendency to tell tales because my grandmother shared with him her history. Imagine how thrilled I was when she opened up her heart and told me about her life.
We were in the kitchen, sitting on bamboo stools. A visit to Amah's kitchen, with its old furnishings, will throw you back to the 1940s. It was drizzling as she began her tale....
madam Lee Soon Heng is a classic character from a bygone era. She is persevering and patient. She was born into a hard life in mainland China. I recall vividly her story about her blistered feet as she had to walk around bare-footed during the treacherous winters. Getting a pair of sandals was out of the question for the family had more urgent priorities - like filling their hungry bellies.
Amah's marriage to Gung-Gung was match-made by her aunt. The newly-weds decided to "escape bitterness" by coming to then Malaya in the late 1930s. All the stuff I've read about the ships that brought immigrants like them are horridly true. My grandmother described how a small cabin would packed with people, and how it was really suffocating.
"I had no choice then. It was too late to turn back," she recalled.
After months at sea they made it safely to Penang, where Gung-Gung worked as a truck driver and she did the laundry for the British officers, during the Japanese Occupation. After Malaya obtained independence, Amah's life became more comfortable. She had sacrificed a lot to send her sons and daughter to school. And the foundation of their success was laid through her perseverance and patience.
I realised then that grandmothers are more than just the biggest angpow-givers. They're also life-savers. These days, I truly appreciate Amah's presence and advice.
On the maternal side of my family, my great-grandma, known affectionately as Ibu Saran, has a whole different flavour to her stories. They are more dramatic, and filled with action and passion.
She lived in Lun Bawang, Sarawak, at a time when headhunters roamed. My great-granddad, the late Ibu (a term used for the elderly) Kapong Palong, was also a head-hunter. According to the elders, Ibu Kapong Palong had to cut off two human heads to prove his worth to his father-in-law. It was a ritual practised then.
My ancestors also had lots of slaves working under them. Initially, I was shocked about that. The upper crust in Lun Bawang had slaves to denote their wealth and power. When the missionaries came and taught them the Lord's words, they converted to Christianity and dropped their animistic beliefs. With this newfound faith, they also released all their slaves.
My father told me stories because it was the only way he could bond with me. My grandmother told him her story for the same reason - to connect with him. Ibu Saran spins her yarns because, as a woman, she is proud of her people's chivalry and death-defying rituals.
We are the descendants of warriors. Our forefathers laughed in the face of death. They were fighters and survivors, and so are we. We should be filled with pride that their blood runs in our veins.
I'm proud to be a part of this culturally-rich family and even prouder that they entrusted me with their tales. It will be my proudest moment when the time comes to pass all these stories to my children.
"Where's the mummy?" I asked, as I snuggled closer to him.
With his arms folded behind his head, he fed my question: "Well, she's working at the farm with his father."
He continued in a whispering tone, "This boy is special. He has a special gift."
With a storyline like that, I was hooked like fish to bait. I was curious. I wanted to know the little boy's gift. I stared at my father with bated breath as he spun his tale.
"This boy cooks the best curry in the village."
Excuse me? Curry? Is this supposed to be a fairy tale? Imagine Cinderella scrubbing pots filled with curry stains. There I was a nine-year-old captivated by a supposedly "fairy tale" which my father had conjured up. He had been concocting stories all the years. I was so in love with stories - or maybe my father was such a good story-teller - that I couldn't even tell he was making them up.
But heck, that curry boy story was my all-time favourite from my dad's collection. Anyway, I did ask what curry he cooked best. Chicken curry, my father said, with a twinkle in his eyes. I laughed my head off. Every time I look at chicken curry, my thoughts go back to that story. You can't forget such outrageous and funny tale, ever.
I have always loved stories. Any story. My father was responsible for that, without even realising it. I remember when I was seven, he returned from a trip to Australia and gave me this sky blue book. It was the bluest of blues and on one page, a caveman was trying to make fire with two sticks.
I couldn't comprehend the facts in the book until years later: it was about human civilisation. I realised that my father had planted in me the seed to open my eyes and mind, and see the bigger picture of life. Personally, that was the best gift anybody could ever have given me.
I believe my father had this tendency to tell tales because my grandmother shared with him her history. Imagine how thrilled I was when she opened up her heart and told me about her life.
We were in the kitchen, sitting on bamboo stools. A visit to Amah's kitchen, with its old furnishings, will throw you back to the 1940s. It was drizzling as she began her tale....
madam Lee Soon Heng is a classic character from a bygone era. She is persevering and patient. She was born into a hard life in mainland China. I recall vividly her story about her blistered feet as she had to walk around bare-footed during the treacherous winters. Getting a pair of sandals was out of the question for the family had more urgent priorities - like filling their hungry bellies.
Amah's marriage to Gung-Gung was match-made by her aunt. The newly-weds decided to "escape bitterness" by coming to then Malaya in the late 1930s. All the stuff I've read about the ships that brought immigrants like them are horridly true. My grandmother described how a small cabin would packed with people, and how it was really suffocating.
"I had no choice then. It was too late to turn back," she recalled.
After months at sea they made it safely to Penang, where Gung-Gung worked as a truck driver and she did the laundry for the British officers, during the Japanese Occupation. After Malaya obtained independence, Amah's life became more comfortable. She had sacrificed a lot to send her sons and daughter to school. And the foundation of their success was laid through her perseverance and patience.
I realised then that grandmothers are more than just the biggest angpow-givers. They're also life-savers. These days, I truly appreciate Amah's presence and advice.
On the maternal side of my family, my great-grandma, known affectionately as Ibu Saran, has a whole different flavour to her stories. They are more dramatic, and filled with action and passion.
She lived in Lun Bawang, Sarawak, at a time when headhunters roamed. My great-granddad, the late Ibu (a term used for the elderly) Kapong Palong, was also a head-hunter. According to the elders, Ibu Kapong Palong had to cut off two human heads to prove his worth to his father-in-law. It was a ritual practised then.
My ancestors also had lots of slaves working under them. Initially, I was shocked about that. The upper crust in Lun Bawang had slaves to denote their wealth and power. When the missionaries came and taught them the Lord's words, they converted to Christianity and dropped their animistic beliefs. With this newfound faith, they also released all their slaves.
My father told me stories because it was the only way he could bond with me. My grandmother told him her story for the same reason - to connect with him. Ibu Saran spins her yarns because, as a woman, she is proud of her people's chivalry and death-defying rituals.
We are the descendants of warriors. Our forefathers laughed in the face of death. They were fighters and survivors, and so are we. We should be filled with pride that their blood runs in our veins.
I'm proud to be a part of this culturally-rich family and even prouder that they entrusted me with their tales. It will be my proudest moment when the time comes to pass all these stories to my children.
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