Fate

by Ryandall Lim (Singapore)

Making a local connection Singapore

“Our fate ends here.” Tears rolled down Pa’s cheeks and slipped helplessly to the floor. Mei and I started sobbing. I could not tell if it was because of the tragic loss, the sight of Pa weeping, or the poignant words he had just said. “Whatever you’ve done in this life… take them with you to the next… and I’ll take mine,” Pa stuttered. It was getting too depressing. But there was more to follow. I questioned these archaic local rituals. Would walking around a coffin, endless mantra chanting, and offerings of paper money, cars, houses or the latest electronic gadgets do anything to raise the dead? Ma was already gone. Religious institutions had long stripped the superstitious and the naïve of their common sense. But on this occasion, I was not just a spectator; I was also invested. So I reminded myself that it was not the time to judge, or label. Pa leaned against the open wooden casket and peered longingly into it. One by one, tears fell onto the white satin sheet that covered Ma’s lifeless body from neck down. Small wet blotches began to pattern the cloth. Tremblingly, he reached toward a Peranakan-styled side table. It was a pretty teak piece, inlaid with mother-of-pearl dragon and phoenix motifs. Pa picked up a green jade comb from it, and gently brushed Ma’s hair. After the third stroke, he lifted the comb slightly with both hands. Then, he broke it in two. “From this moment, we’ll go our separate ways… forever…” Pa’s voice trailed off and he slumped over the coffin. With erratic bursts of breath, he wailed for Ma with choking hysteria. The Taoist medium stepped forth, held Pa’s arm with one hand and brought him steady onto his feet. He was a well-rehearsed pro: in those few seconds of lent support, the medium missed neither his chanting rhythm, nor a twiddle of the brown-beaded mala he held in the other hand. There was one final part. The surrounding mourners bowed solemnly at the casket, then turned their backs to it, almost in synchrony. The medium led Pa to the door and out of it. I shifted my focus to them. The back view of a hopeless old man was too pitiful a sight for me to bear. But as much as I wanted to look away, I was morbidly curious to find out how this would end. Four steps past the wooden frame, the two men turned. Light glistened from Pa’s tears. His tightly pursed lips added a map of tiny crevasses onto his already wrinkled face. In a sudden move, he tossed the two broken halves of the comb overhead, away from the coffin. They landed with a “cling” and a “clang”, as one half hit an enamel spittoon. The ritual was complete. Pa and Ma’s lives together on Earth had ended: no more sorrow together, no more love together, and most significantly, no after-life together. For an anguishing moment, the act sunk deep. Pa and Ma had separated forever; a chapter in life, an eternity in death. Darkness on set. Then a soft motor purr. Applause. Mei and I stared forlornly at the maroon curtain as it lowered slowly. She leaned over and mumbled: “That was beyond excellent, but it’s the first and last tragic Chinese opera for me.” I wanted to tell her that most such operas had melodramatic endings, but the lump in my throat forbade me to. Instead, I nodded sheepishly, and tried to hide the crumpled, snort-soaked tissue paper in my hand. We walked out of Kreta Ayer People’s Theatre amidst contented Cantonese chatter proclaiming how fantastic the performance was. We had planned to have satay and chili crab for supper at Singapore’s historic Lau Pa Sat after the show but Fate had, within two hours, wrenched our appetites away.