House No. 453

by Catherine Hostiani (Singapore)

Making a local connection China

It is mid-morning when Uncle Oh Ti parks his car in front of a convenience store on a sleepy street. “Very curious indeed that his nickname is Oh Ti,” Mother whispers to me. In Minnan, the Southern Fujian dialect, Oh Ti means black pig. Uncle Oh Ti is Father’s cousin and I have never known his existence until today, when he picked us up from Quanzhou train station. He is balding and chatty, but his words flow in vain, uncaught by my Minnan-deaf ears. He unlocks a flimsy narrow door, smacked in between the convenience store and a stationery shop. Only one person can enter at a time so we arrange ourselves in a single line. Grandfather’s house. No. 453. Above the door frame, there is a wooden sign pledging “In our heart, there lies our country.” We pick our way past broken tiles in a courtyard. The residence retains the traditional Chinese settlement comprising a few buildings to accommodate different generations living in the same compound. There is an old belief that the sky is round and the earth is square; when man is close to earth, health will prevail. Square courtyard brings this adage into practice. The red bricks and teal window frames look cheerful on this cloudy day. Potted plants stand in a neat row, green and erect. But the mirage of well-maintained residence vanishes there for vines trail the wall, as if covering its chipped parts out of shame. Inside, everyone seems to have left in a hurry. Pots and pans are scattered, the feast forgotten. Chests and suitcases are stacked against the bedroom wall, the voyage abandoned. Only a beautiful red wood cabinet with intricate gold carvings stands proud in a corner, refuses to age. “After your great grand aunt passed away in 2013, nobody lives here anymore because there is complication with the paperwork,” explains Uncle Oh Ti. But the past still does. He points out to a sephia photograph hanging on the living room wall. The inscription reveals that it was taken to send young Xin Shi Yuan (grandfather’s name) back home. We spot grandfather in his twenties with sixteen other handsome young men; all in smart suits and ties. When he was 17, grandfather left Quanzhou for Indonesia in search of better opportunity. He arrived in Bandung, the place we call home, without knowing the language, customs, and culture but sufficient grit. These gentlemen must have been his newfound friends. In our heart, there lies our country. Maybe he left with this understanding, that he could carry his country and the people he left behind in his heart. As the eldest son, huge responsibility laid on his shoulder as he had to support his family. He corresponded regularly with his brothers and sent money home. Therefore this house. We enter the second building. The state of ruin is even more devastating. Roof has collapsed and debris is everywhere. An old bicycle bathes in dust and rust. Musty smell lingers. There are more rooms at the back but we cannot go further for safety reason. I catch Mother getting lost in thought. In bitter sweet taste that only memory capable of concocting, she says “When we were here forty years ago, we slept in those rooms. Your grandmother threw a huge party, inviting relatives and neighbors. Banquet was spilling from this courtyard to the other one outside. Oh, the gifts we bring! 12 suitcases of them because they were so poor back then.” I try to conjure what she sees. The beams are back on the roof, floor tiles clean and shiny, and the walls smooth without cracks. In the courtyard, long tables with auspicious red tablecloths hold bowls with a mountain of rice. Roasted pig and steamed fish. Winter fruits that are in season. Rice wine until the moon is full. Family reunites, curious neighbors wanting to hear the stories from exotic faraway lands. Uncle Oh Ti looks at his watch. “Let’s go. Everyone is waiting for all of you at lunch.” We lock the door, grandfather forever young on the wall. We will share a meal to celebrate old ties and newfound family. For we have come home, to the beginning.