Liang shuffles uncomfortably on my left. Xiu’s shoulder makes probing incursions on my right. I feel the need to stake my claim. Secure my borders, in your language. I use my elbows to put them in place. Xiu, in her wisdom, retreats hastily. Liang resists, driven into desperation by the discomfort of the car seat. I am older and stronger, and I remind him of this. His head smacks against the window, hard. He bawls, trying to attract the attention of Pa and Ma. A good strategy, but they are mired in their own soap opera—discussions about Ma’s in-laws. Pa’s brother, Da Bo, in particular.
“Eh, you know ah, that money we give to fix the toilet, where did it go? It go to your brother, I tell you! To his drinking! You know or not? I tell you ah Sit, I’m not going to give his children any angpows!”
My mum only uses my dad’s first name when she is furious. Usually he is referred to with a complex system of nods, shrugs and non-words. You know, sounds like ‘ngh’ or ‘oi’.
“Ah Jing, you are driving me crazy I tell you. Crazy. CRA-ZY!”
The Proton Wira wobbles as my father reaches fever pitch, hands leaving the wheel in remonstrance. In response a cacophony of beeping erupts from behind, beside, in front of our car. It buys a brief respite for each party to rearm for the next skirmish.
Each Lunar New Year we make this painful pilgrimage. A two-hour drive turns into a nightmare six hours as filial piety and tradition combine to clog up the Singapore-Malaysia border and the North-South Expressway. In our cramped Proton Wira it becomes unbearable, bordering child abuse.
‘Wira’ means hero. On this pilgrimage you will need to perform many heroic deeds to overcome the challenges: The custom officials, scowling at passports, asking silly questions like “Purpose of visit?”. The awful, overpriced expressway food. The toilets, 20 cents to squat in a pool of piss where the food you just ate cleanses your guts. Much cheaper than coffee enemas. The other wannabe heroes, swerving and manoeuvring in the race to the gates of Heaven. My father has impressive aggression and mental fortitude, honking and swearing like he means it. When it comes down to it though, he makes way. Proton has a terrible safety record—there are endless entertaining Youtube time-wasters.
None of us are on speaking terms by the time we reach our destination. Tampin. The place of my birth. We call Tampin ‘Yan zi chen’ (town of swallows), in homage to the thousands of little shits that crowd the power lines. They shit all over the town, painting it a stinking shade of white. In the evenings their screeching provides the only nightlife. My parents left not long after I was born.
Pa and Ma arm themselves with angpows, whilst Min, Zhuan and I pick up oranges, twelve ringgits for a box of fifty. We put on smiles to save face. God forbid any trace of division in the family, particularly on New Year’s day. We extricate ourselves from the safety of the car, and trudge into Popo’s house, shoulders hunched, eyes grey but always smiling.
The first creature to greet us is Bobby, Popo’s increasingly senile mongrel. He strains at his chains, growling aggressively. He used to intimidate me, but no longer. Bobby is full of air, all bark no bite. He is not much of a fighter—he has lost his tail, his left eye, and collects new scars every week. One time he even lost to the neighbour’s cat. It’s not his fault, really. Any dog fed a diet of rice and bones would fare no better. So no, Bobby doesn’t scare me. When he arks up we give him a smack, and this usually puts him back in place. But he never learns. Even right up to the moment we make contact, he continues to growl. Dumb dog.
We step into the house. A myriad of vaguely familiar faces look back at us, all wearing the same smile, grey eyes and hunched shoulders. The only one I know confidently is Da Bo, whom I detest, and Popo, whom I love. She changed my diapers and smacked my bottom. She hasn’t been the same since the stroke. She sits in the beach chair, resplendent in her cheongsam, scratching her back with a back scratcher. Scrp-scrp-scrp-scrp-scrp. The sound of wood on skin is oddly comforting.
We exchange greetings with the wall of smiles. It’s smiles all round. Joy, happiness, harmony all round. Da Bo is the only one who does not bother with this charade. He breaks the monotony of smiles with his sneer. I hate him. Pa and Ma always argue whenever he’s around. He has a beer belly, a temper and two wives. In this town that pretty much makes you the devil incarnate.
He scowls down at me and drawls, “Wah, you are so big now, so big for ten years old!”
“Eleven,” I correct him. “Xin Nian Kuai Le, Da Bo.” I hand over the mandarins as I recite the mantra, unchanged from the previous year. “Wan shi ru yi, shen ti jian kang, nian nian you yu, cai yuan gun gun.” These are all slight variations on prosperity, longevity, harmony, happiness, money and other good things in life. Mostly money.
He sniffs, and unwillingly pulls out an angpow. I can hear the tinkle of coins. You fucking miser. I keep the smile steady. “Eleven, huh? So this is your year. Year of the Dog, no? Good for you. You know how the dog became one of the 12 animals in the Great Race?”
He starts to explain, but I cut him off with vigorous nods. I know the story well. The dog comes in 11th, out of 12. The only animal to come in after the dog is the pig. The pig. I don’t buy this crap about the pig being the smartest creature. Orwell had it wrong. A pig is a pig. You ever see a pig roll in the dirt? Or a pig eat? Three-quarters of my country wouldn’t touch a filthy pig. Come to think of it, they wouldn’t touch a filthy dog either. It’s haram.
But I digress. I meant to explain how the dog made the hallowed list. It’s a non-story, one that no one remembers. We all remember how the devious rat finished first. We all know about the industrious ox, the arrogant rabbit, the powerful dragon. That’s why we fuck like crazy during the year of the dragon. But the dog? It was too dumb to understand the importance of the Great Race. It got distracted, bathing in a river all day. That’s like… a marathon runner stopping mid-race in the Olympics for a twenty-course meal. When it realised its folly it was dark, and the Emperor was nearly asleep when the dog dashed into the gates of heaven, tongue out, panting hard. He should not have bothered. Maybe if he bathed longer he would have been cleaner. He might have been halal. That would have been better than 11th place.
“You know, you were almost born in the Year of the Pig.” says Da Bo. “Good thing you missed it by a few days, no? Your…”
“SHUT UP!”
My mother looks furious. No. Murderous. She often looks like this when Da Bo is around. My father steps in, mutters something placidly. But I know what is about to happen. It happens every year. That’s why I hate Da Bo so much. He invariably leaves a trail of destruction, of shattered china and angry words. I try and think of harmony, happiness and other good things, but I can feel the smile slide off my face.
My father offers my siblings as a peace offering, who in turn offer their mandarins. My siblings repeat the same mantra, but not as well. Da Bo dispatches them with angpows. They run and hide behind my parents. Bored with this child’s play, he turns his attentions back to my parents.
“Ah Sit, you managed to find a job yet? No? That’s a pity. I guess nobody needs English teachers nowadays.”
He says English the way I refer to a pig.
“And Ah Jing, I hear you got a job at the supermarket, ha! You should come back to Tampin! You know we also have supermarkets. Just as good as Singapore supermarkets.”
“Aiyoh, not everybody can spend their day doing nothing. How’s second wife?” They are like familiar fencing partners, thrusting and parrying.
“She’s fine. She comes and helps Popo. You know she had a fall last week?” At this, I can see the pain in Pa’s eyes. His guilt.
Popo continues to scratch her back. Scrp-scrp-scp-scrp-scrp. She looks wonderfully content.
“Oh that’s so lovely of second wife.” Ma doesn’t skip a beat. “I’m sure first wife loves her for her personality. Oh speaking of which, I noticed the toilet is leaking. I thought we paid for that six months ago?”
This pisses Da Bo off. He clutches the can in his hand defensively. “Ha, easy for some to say. Easy when you are miles away. Easy when you don’t have to cook, do the washing, shower and clean!”
Popo continues to scratch her back contentedly. I can see a trail of dead, flaky skin on the floor. Like when you eat a meat pie and bits flake off onto the ground.
Da bo takes a determined swig from the can, and takes a step towards Ma.
I say something. I’m not sure what. Something angry, spoken with an intoxicating dose of adrenaline. Like a low growl.
“I’m warning you, you sit back down. This is adult talk, nothing to do with you.” His right hand hangs threateningly in mid-air.
I understand in that moment why Bobby continued to growl even as our hand hovered just inches from his face. He was not stupid. He knew all along what was coming.
“You fat fuck.” I say this in English.
I didn’t see it coming. The sound of his right hand on my face rings out cleanly through the house. A short silence, then the fading sound of coins clinking against the tiled floor as the angpow flees my hand. He even put in one-cent coins, the bastard. There is a slight ringing in my head. Somewhere in the distance I can make out the sound of fireworks.
I stare back defiantly at Da Bo. “Why don’t you hit me again, you fat fuck.”
He does. Now I can no longer hear the fireworks.
I continue to stare. He raises his hand again, but I don’t break eye contact. Around me I can feel some kind of activity, the buzzing when adults try and fix adult problems. But I can’t be sure. All I see is Da Bo’s eyes, bloodshot, slightly unfocused.
The first thing I hear when my hearing returns is scrp-scrp-scrp-scrp-scrp. I wish I could describe the look on Popo’s face as she does this. Harmony, happiness, and everything good in life.
Afterwards I get it from Pa, Ma and every other adult except Popo. A child should never meddle with adult affairs, things he knows nothing about.
I would find out the truth much later, years after I find out about sex, drinking and money. I would find out that stress can cause premature labour. I would find out that I was meant to be born in the Year of the Pig. I would find out why Ma hated Da Bo so much. I would find out that pigeons were not why my parents left Tampin. But that day I found out one thing. I found out why dogs continue to growl, even when they know they are about to lose.
