Mum Is Where the Heart Is Read online

  Mum Is Where The Heart Is

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  Copyright © 2016 by Tham Yew Chin

  Translation copyright © 2016 by Shelly Bryant

  All rights reserved. Published in Singapore by Epigram Books.

  www.epigrambooks.sg

  Originally published in 2007

  by Global Publishing Co Pte Ltd as Qi Cai Sui Yue

  Published with the support of

  National Library Board, Singapore

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Name: You Jin, 1950

  Title: Mum is where the heart is / You Jin

  translated by Shelly Bryant

  Other title: Qi cai sui yue

  Description: First edition: January 2017

  Singapore: Epigram Books Pte Ltd, 2016

  Originally published in 2007

  by Global Publishing Co Pte Ltd as Qi cai sui yue.

  Translated from Chinese

  Winner of the Cultural Medallion

  Identifier(s): OCN 965932125

  ISBN 978-981-4615-47-1 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-981-4615-46-4 (ebook)

  Subject(s): LCSH: Chinese essays—21st century

  Classification: DDC C814.3—dc23

  First Edition: January 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  An Unexpected Guest

  CHAPTER 2

  Life Overseas

  CHAPTER 3

  A Sweet Trajectory

  CHAPTER 4

  A New Guest

  CHAPTER 5

  A Dream Come True

  CHAPTER 6

  The Whirlpool of Life

  CHAPTER 7

  Family Instruction

  CHAPTER 8

  The Universe in a Bowl

  CHAPTER 9

  Language is Life

  CHAPTER 10

  Growing Up

  CHAPTER 11

  Seeing the World

  CHAPTER 12

  Studying Overseas

  Postscript

  CHAPTER 1

  An Unexpected Guest

  The Rambutan Tree

  AN OLD, FAITHFUL tree stood at the main entrance to our grand ancestral home in Ipoh, with flaming red rambutans weighing its branches down. This tree was my mother-in-law’s most loved object. She loved it for its craziness. It did not distinguish between year, month or season, always producing fruit in a frenzy. Clusters of rambutan forced the thin branches to bow, the crimson colour of the husks so bright it was almost gaudy, as if staining the fat clouds red in delight.

  It was not only the outside of the rambutan that looked good. When the red hairy skin was opened to reveal the glistening flesh, each bite was a burst of joyous sweetness.

  This fruit’s outstanding quantity and quality were the result of my mother-in-law’s tireless efforts. She protected the tree from insects, and fertilised and watered every day without fail. It rewarded her tender ministrations with a wealth of delicious fruit.

  The first time I saw the tree was early in the year I turned twentysix, and had just married into the Lim family. At the time, my mother-in-law already had ten grandchildren. At Chinese New Year, the whole clan returned to Ipoh from where they were scattered across the world, and the normally quiet ancestral home would overflow with uproarious laughter. In the 1970s, we did not have computers, and even television programmes were not very good, so the family garden served as the children’s playground. The rambutan tree with its rich leafy branches naturally became their headquarters. All the children, brimming with energy, would turn into Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, soaring into the tree and leaping about among its branches, the deep greens and vivid reds of the foliage casting bright patterns against the background of their figures.

  My mother-in-law and I sat on chairs under the tree, chatting. A calm smile lit her almond-shaped eyes. Amid the happy shouts of the children, she said, “When you have children, send them to Ipoh and let me look after them.” She paused, then added, “I’ll teach them to climb trees.”

  Children! To me, becoming a parent was still a vague, distant thought. I was only twenty-six, and had just made a switch in my career from a professional librarian to a news reporter. My life had changed from a boring white sheet to a multi-coloured fabric in leopard print. I still had much that I both needed and wanted to learn.

  But then, looking at the innocent, adorable children playing in the branches above us, I thought: Raising a child is just like cultivating a tree. Only a person who loves her tree wholeheartedly, tending it with all her strength and giving it all her attention, will ever see it grow up strong. While it grows, she should not smother it with too much protection. Let the wind blow and the rain fall, and it will be trained over time to be tough and fearless.

  One day, I thought, if I have children, I want them to be like trees, possessing a sturdy body like the trunk, and a brain like the rich, abundant fruit. When the wind comes, I will let it rustle through the leaves, making them dance, and when the rain arrives, I will allow its waters to soak in and bring new brightness to its leaves. I did not want a little potted plant so weak it had to be kept indoors, sheltered from the wind. Whatever else I ended up with, I certainly did not want that.

  Caught Unawares

  I remember very clearly the morning in September 1976, when I arrived at a Chinese pastry shop in Jurong to conduct an interview for a special story I was writing. Chinese pastry-making is a trade with a long history in Singapore, starting from when a group of hardworking pioneers made their way here from China, bringing with them their skills in pastry-making. In the past, these sorts of pastries were often given away at weddings and almost always used as an offering made to the spirits, so their ancient flavour had a sort of mystical appeal. But by the 1970s, Singaporean society had become more Westernised, and social customs and tastes had changed. This, along with the constant rise in prices of ingredients and difficulty in finding workers, put the entire Chinese pastry industry into dire straits. It was because of this that I had decided to conduct an investigation into the prospects of the industry.

  More than thirty types of pastries with different shapes were sold in the Jurong shop, overwhelming my senses with their beautiful colours and aromas.

  As was my usual practice, I had not eaten breakfast before rushing out of the house to conduct the interview. However, the delicious smells of warm pastry did not stimulate the wriggly worm of hunger in me; instead, my belly felt like it was suddenly filled with too much air, like a balloon. The innocent pastries had unwittingly attacked my senses, and I had an unusual response—I felt like vomiting.

  I thought that maybe my gastric problems were flaring up again; they had troubled me continually since becoming a reporter. As soon as I had finished the interview, I rushed to a clinic on Holland Road. The doctor broke out into a huge smile and said, “Congratulations!”

  There was an unexpected guest in my belly. I was due to deliver my first baby the following J
une.

  I stepped out of the clinic, my mind in a whirl. The previous week, my husband James and I had been excitedly planning a trip around the world. We had decided to apply for three months’ leave from our companies and travel to the four corners of the Earth. To make possible this lovely plan, I had spent every non-working moment like a little worm, burrowing deeply into history and geography books; our huge world map was all worn out from my constant poring over it. I felt that reading a million books for the sake of travelling a million miles was really a thing of beauty.

  But the news of my pregnancy poured cold water over the whole plan.

  Conventional wisdom dictated that I should have been elated to receive news that I was going to be a mother. But the timing… When I stepped out of the clinic, I felt an unusual weight, as if I had been put in shackles. I never anticipated that I might feel this way after receiving news that my firstborn was on the way.

  Cancelling the plans for our round-the-world trip, I continued with my reporting career. I scrambled for interviews as I awaited the arrival of the new life. I say “waiting”, not “looking forward”, because throughout the period of my pregnancy, I had all the most miserable symptoms.

  Vomiting, dizziness, nausea. I felt like I was floating in a haze. On many occasions, when I was halfway through an interview, I had to ask the interviewee for a break so I could run to the washroom, where I would throw up until my stomach was a knot. It seemed more accurate to call my “bundle of joy” a “burden of woe”.

  At the same time, my emotions were as volatile as a land mine. I exploded at the slightest cause, sometimes even without any provocation. One day, it was late when I finished an exclusive interview on the dying laundry industry, so it was already after eight when I got home. My legs were so tired, I felt like they would snap if I just bent them lightly. But even worse off than my legs was my spirit. James had got home earlier than me, and had already set out dinner on the table. There was a steamed fish, an onion omelette, a pot of cabbage, and white radish soup. At one glance, I started complaining: the fish was smelly, the eggs fishy, the soup plain, and my spirits low. James, however, was in a good mood, filling up bowls with steaming rice, and urging me, “Let’s eat!”

  I picked up my bowl of rice and reluctantly scooped the grains into my mouth with my chopsticks. James placed a huge piece of snowy white fish meat into my bowl. Without quite knowing why, I completely lost my temper, sweeping the fish from my bowl onto the table with a plop. Huge tears welled up and dropped into my bowl. James did not say a word, but calmly picked up the fish from the table and moved it aside. Then, he looked at me gently and said, “You’re going to give birth to a firecracker!” Getting no response from me, he continued, “A torpedo giving birth to a firecracker. Before long, the house will be filled with the smell of gunpowder!”

  My tears were still streaming down my cheeks, but his funny comment made me feel more like laughing. After a moment, he added in a serious tone, “Laughter is the best nutrition for the foetus. It seems like it’s been a long time since the baby had this nourishment.”

  These words jolted me. Why had it not crossed my mind that the baby needed happiness as a foundation for health?

  In the days that followed, I learned to control my temper, and the uncomfortable symptoms of pregnancy gradually disappeared. I was no longer dizzy, and I stopped vomiting. But just as I started to feel better, a new “ailment” surfaced: my belly became a bottomless pit. No matter how much food I put into it, it was never enough. Even if a slice of air could have been chopped up and served to me, I would have devoured it like it was the tastiest dish ever. I ate everything I could get my hands on, all day every day. There was no point trying to control myself because no matter how much I ate, my belly was still just as big and round. If I refrained, it would be in vain, so I ate greedily and heartily. If there was such thing as an Eating Olympics, I would have won a gold medal.

  I ate well and slept well, and I was healthy. Sometimes as I was zipping about doing my work, I could even forget that I was pregnant.

  One day, when I was seven months along, the Asian Women’s Welfare Association organised a press conference, during which they announced some experimental plans to open a day care centre in the Ang Mo Kio Community Nursing Home. The press conference was scheduled for ten in the morning, so at nine I was on the roadside waiting for a taxi. After waiting for quite a while, I still had not seen even the shadow of a cab. I am a very time-conscious person, and my anxiety transformed into ants crawling on my skin. A bus arrived, with passengers already packed as tightly as sardines in a tin. Without regard for anything else, I pushed my way onto the bus, squeezing into the swollen crowd, and perched precariously on the steps like an acrobat. All I was thinking about at that moment was work-work-work, with no regard for danger. My foolish decision almost resulted in a disaster: the bus had only been on the road for a short while when the driver slammed on the brakes. I fell down the stairs and into the road on my back. Amid alarmed cries from the crowd, wave after wave of pain flowed very distinctly from my ankle. I was not afraid that I was injured, but that the baby might have been hurt. Kind bystanders rushed to help me up, and a thoughtful driver stopped and rushed me to the hospital.

  Fortunately, nothing was wrong with the foetus, but I was given two weeks of medical leave for my injuries. During the fortnight I lay in bed, I started to consider seriously the question of who would look after the child after it was born. Did I want to employ a domestic helper? James and I both worked very long hours. Who was going to look after the baby? Did I want to entrust my child to a nanny? The problem was, I had not yet found someone I could trust.

  It seemed that the only viable option for us at the time was to send the baby five hundred kilometres away to Ipoh and allow my mother-in-law to care for it. She lived a leisurely life, and she loved—in fact, yearned—to care for her grandchildren. If I sent the baby to her, I could have complete confidence in its welfare, and she would be totally overjoyed. This seemed like a win for both sides.

  An Unexpected Reaction

  My due date was 11 June 1977. I worked furiously right up until 8 June, then took maternity leave from work.

  Being used to a hectic work schedule, I now turned my attention to the kitchen. I cooked all sorts of tonics for myself, most often with braised black chicken. I cooked the dish in a very special way: first, I skinned and quartered the chicken, then used a mortar and pestle to pound it. I then placed a bowl upside down in a double layer stewpot, put the bashed chicken on top of the inverted bowl, and braised it on low heat for four hours. The heat drew the juices out of the chicken, turning it golden brown. As I savoured each bite, it was like I was eating a ray of sunshine, warming me through and through. It was very comforting and beneficial.

  James would take me out to dinner at different restaurants to sample different cuisines. I ate until I was stuffed, my face bright and my belly full. But while I was enjoying the finest food in life, the baby still refused to make its debut.

  The obstetrician who cared for me was Dr Lena Chen. I was ten days overdue and she suggested exercise.

  “Exercise!” I cried. Normally, hearing that word was like hearing the name of my foe. Here I was lugging around a belly as huge as a barrel, and she wanted me to exercise?

  Dr Chen kindly offered to enrol me into an antenatal exercise class at the hospital. I shook my head like a rattle. She compromised, saying, “Then go walk in the garden. The more you exercise, the easier the birth process will be.”

  At the time, we were staying in a low-density block near Newton Circus, on the top floor of a four-storey building. That day when I went home, I used the stairs to initiate my exercise programme. Three times a day—after breakfast, lunch and dinner—I climbed up and down the stairs. As I did so, sweat dripped down my back and my breath was as heavy as an ox’s, but my belly was unmoved by my efforts.

  On 28 June, when I went for my next check-up, Dr Chen finally announced, “Get re
ady to go to the hospital tomorrow morning. I’m going to induce labour.”

  On 29 June, I checked into Mount Alvernia Hospital. Five hours after I received an injection to induce labour, my eldest child was born. We named him Lim Fung Yee. Before James’s father had passed away, he left a list of names. The “Fung” that makes up the middle character of my son’s name was set by the family genealogy, and the final character was an expression of his grandfather’s explicit wish that the next generation be of good character and temperament.

  When I held this seven-pound baby at my breast, my first thought was, I really should not have drunk so much coffee while I was pregnant. The little face was so dark, that it felt quite distant and unfamiliar to me, not at all what I had expected to see or feel when I first held my first child.

  But even though the face first struck me as something less than beautiful, before long a flood of affection, with a mixture of great pleasure and pride, washed over me.

  I was a mother!

  I paused, then smiled to myself. I had no idea in that moment what a long road lay ahead of me in the future. I certainly did not expect all the unavoidable difficulties of raising a child.

  Confinement

  In 1977, I was working as a reporter for the Nanyang Siang Pau. My monthly salary was only $700, but a confinement nanny cost $800 for the month, and an additional $50 ang pow was expected on top of that. The confinement nanny is a specialised profession in Singapore and Malaysia. During a newborn’s first month, she comes in to look after both mother and child; her duties include doing the laundry and cooking herbal tonics and foods carefully tailored to a new mother’s needs. Her most important responsibility is to take care of all the baby, including feeding and bathing it.

  I had met Auntie Zhang, the confinement nanny we’d chosen, only once before I gave birth. She was in her fifties and wore her hair pulled back, revealing a forehead with faint lines. She had sparkling, gold teeth, and appeared capable and sharp. I liked what I saw, and promptly paid a $400 deposit for her services. I never imagined that the person I saw then was just a false front.