Every family needs a villain. Someone to talk about, with lowered voices and raised eyebrows, when we meet at wedding dinners and baby full-moon parties.
The ‘villain’ in my family was my Ah Mah.
As my paternal grandmother she should have been honoured and revered as the matriarch of our family. Even feared, if she chose to wield that power over us. But Ah Mah, as my brothers and I called her, gave up this position in our household a long time ago.
First Course: The Wedding Banquet
Shark’s fin for prosperity. Fish for abundance. Prawns for laughter.
Abalone and sea cucumber for good hearts and happiness.
Suckling pig for chastity. Noodles for longevity. Duck for fidelity.
Red bean and lotus seed for sweetness and fertility.
‘My mother will live with us when we get married,’ Dad told Mum as their relationship got more serious.
This package deal was non-negotiable. As the only son, Dad was duty-bound to look after his parents. Mum understood this, having been brought up by her own parents to be filial to her elders. She was prepared to begin her married life as a household of three.
But my grandmother had other ideas.
Not long after my parents were married at the civil registry office, they moved with Ah Mah into a rented terrace house in Petaling Jaya, a township just outside Kuala Lumpur. Then Mum and Dad began planning the celebration they were expected to hold for family and friends. Custom dictated a Chinese wedding banquet. The more people you could invite, the greater the measure of your generosity and social standing. The more lavish the dinner – with expensive delicacies like shark’s fin soup, abalone, suckling pig – the greater the show of your wealth.
My parents were young, just starting out in their careers. They were saving up to buy their first home. They wanted to avoid the expense of an nine-course dinner for several hundred people. When Mum suggested her parents hold a small wedding luncheon in her hometown of Penang just for immediate family and friends, Dad was apparently more than agreeable. Given his aversion to people, my father was probably keen to forego a long-drawn evening of visiting each table for toasts with guests he and my mother hardly knew.
When they told Ah Mah about their plans, she was outraged. Surely the wedding must be held in Kuala Lumpur where Dad grew up. Surely it must be a grand event to celebrate her only son’s marriage, to show off her new daughter-in-law to the friends and neighbours she must invite. Surely it must be hosted by the boy’s side. Ngor mou meen ah – I’ll lose face, my grandmother would have exclaimed. Oh, the shame she would bear when those same friends and neighbours learnt that her son’s wedding was hosted by the bride’s parents.
But Mum and Dad insisted on their Penang wedding. Ah Mah refused to attend.
By the time the newlyweds returned to Petaling Jaya, she had already packed her things and moved out to a room somewhere in Kuala Lumpur. There, she waited. Ah Mah thought her filial son would seek her out, beg her to return to live with them. But Dad never did. Perhaps he too was smarting from his own loss of face, from her absence at the wedding.
In a fit of ire my grandmother forfeited her home – and her clout – with her only son.
Second Course: Cantonese Roast Duck
Ginger. Garlic. Spring Onions.
Bean sauce. Five-spice powder. Maltose syrup.
A whole duck.
Mum pulled a newspaper-wrapped package from the bag, her hands smudged with grease and ink as she unveiled a Cantonese Roast Duck, neatly chopped into pieces. The aroma of ginger and five-spice powder filled the kitchen but it was the maltose-glazed skin, red-brown and glistening, that made me long for a bite.
‘Aiya, I already told you no need to bring anything when you come,’ my mother said, the edge in her voice belying the smile on her face.
‘Something for dinner. How can I come to your house empty-handed?’ The sting in Ah Mah’s tone chased away Mum’s smile as her forehead folded into a frown.
My grandmother always brought a whole duck whenever she came to see us. She would procure it from one of the many Cantonese roast meat stalls in Kuala Lumpur. When I was growing up I only saw Ah Mah once a month, when she came to collect her allowance from Dad. She would appear suddenly, peering through the bars of the security grille door as she called to us in the living room. ‘Quickly, greet Ah Mah,’ Mum would command as she let our grandmother in. My brothers and I would comply as Ah Mah stared at us, her eyes framed by dark-rimmed glasses, her mouth twisted in a half-smile. I could see echoes of Dad’s stern demeanour on her face. I remember the way her arm pressed her handbag – square, severe, black – against her samfu-clad body as she presented my mother with the roast duck in a carrier bag.
I love Cantonese Roast Duck. Especially the game-y breast meat, succulent against crispy skin. But I never enjoyed the duck that Ah Mah brought, because Mum would shove it into the freezer once my grandmother left. It never tasted quite the same when defrosted and reheated on another day; its skin would be rubbery, the meat stringy.
Cantonese Roast Duck always reminds me of how the air in our house changed whenever my Ah Mah visited. How the James Last Orchestra would play louder than usual on the stereo as Dad sat in the sofa reading his papers, barely acknowledging his mother as she tried to speak to him. How shrill Mum sounded when she shouted for us to come to lunch, making me want to hide under my bed instead. How my brothers and I mostly stayed in our rooms, away from the adults and the sharp edges in their voices.
Third Course: Hainanese Chicken Rice
Ginger. Garlic. Spring Onions.
Pandan leaves. Chilli. Rice.
A whole chicken.
My paternal forebears came from Hainan, an island off the southernmost tip of China. Many Hainanese immigrants like Ah Yeh, my grandfather, worked in resthouses set up for travelling civil servants when the British ruled Malaya. Learning Western methods from their colonial employers, Hainan cooks developed their own hybrid dishes like the Hainanese Chicken Chop, one of the two Hainan meals I can make. The other being the Hainanese Chicken Rice ubiquitous in Southeast Asian hawker centres: ginger-and-spring-onion-poached chicken served with chilli and cucumber, with rice cooked in chicken fat, pandan leaves, garlic and more ginger.
My recipe for Hainanese Chicken Rice comes from a cookbook I bought when I was in my thirties. It was not handed down to me by my grandparents. I know very little about Ah Mah and Ah Yeh. Dad hardly talked about his family, never seemed to want to. Whenever I saw my Ah Mah I never thought to ask her the questions I have for her now: how she met my grandfather, what her life was like when she was younger, what her hopes and dreams were. I don’t even know if she was Hainanese, like my Ah Yeh.
But I would hear stories about her. Of how she left my grandfather and the rural Temerloh resthouse where he worked because she missed the excitement of Kuala Lumpur. Of how she left her young children – Dad and Auntie Jay – on their own while she went out to gamble. Of how she complained to our neighbours about what a bad wife and mother Mum was, neglecting her family because she worked night shifts as a nurse. She’s a troublemaker, one neighbour told Mum afterwards. If she was my mother-in-law I’d take my broom to her and sweep her out of the house along with the rest of the rubbish, said another. Stubborn as a mule, I once heard Auntie Jay describe Ah Mah, her own twisted smile reminding me of her mother. Ah Mah stayed with Aunty Jay for a while, but apparently they used to argue all the time and my grandmother moved out to live on her own again. I later learnt from Mum that mother and daughter were estranged for years.
As a teenager I had two living grandparents: Ah Mah and Kong Kong. Whenever I think of Mum’s father I smell the deep spice of the cigars he smoked and the salty bean of the tau sar pneah pastries he always brought us from Penang. Whereas my memories of Ah Mah would evoke a sour scent not quite masked by the floral talcum powder she used. Kong-Kong was gruff, but his eyes would crinkle with warmth whenever my brothers and I made him laugh. While Ah Mah always seemed so brittle, ready to explode into shards of cutting remarks that were quick to wound and slow to heal.
But ‘villain’ may be too strong a word to describe my Ah Mah.
If anything, my grandmother became the family outcast. The one who embarrassed Auntie Jay by turning up at her son MK’s wedding dressed in an old samfu, her hair uncombed as she shuffled into the church in slippers. ‘Why are you so late? And why are you wearing that? Ngor mou meen ah!’ I remember my aunt hissing, her scowl a contrast to her elegant mother-of-the-groom smiles that greeted guests earlier. I felt sorry for Ah Mah, blinking in confusion as she was ushered to a seat at the back of the church. ‘She’s old, she probably forgot to dress for the wedding,’ I said to Mum. Only to hear her mutter: ‘I wouldn’t put it past her to do it on purpose.’ When I got married a few years later, Ah Mah did not show up at all. Maybe she forgot, I told myself. Not wanting to admit how relieved I was to be spared any drama at my own wedding.
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Fourth Course: Sago Gula Melaka
Sago pearls, extracted from stems of palm trees.
Gula Melaka syrup, boiled from the sap of coconut palm flower buds.
Santan, squeezed from shavings of coconut flesh.
But Ah Mah once taught me how to make Sago Gula Melaka.
I no longer recall when this lesson happened. Or how. Ah Mah’s visits were often all too brief, but at some point she must have stayed long enough for her to take me through the laborious process of cooking sago.
First, getting a pot of water and sago to a rolling boil as we watched the tiny, chalk-white spheres expand into clumps. Ah Mah’s hand on mine holding a wooden spoon, guiding it round the pot so the opaque sago wouldn’t burn at the bottom. Ah Mah telling me to wait patiently. To be careful with the bubbling mass of goo. To take notice when the sago finally turned translucent so we could take the pot off the heat. Carrying it together to the sink where she showed me how to ‘wash’ the sago in cold running water, straining it with a sieve as slippery pearls emerged like frog’s eggs out of their starchy swamp. Then tipping them into an old ice-cream container before placing it in the fridge to chill.
I mentioned this memory to Mum recently during one of our weekly FaceTime calls. I was not prepared for her reaction.
‘Your Ah Mah never even cooked! How could she have taught you?’ On my screen I could see Mum waving her hand in the air, as if swatting an annoying fly.
‘I’m sure it was her,’ I said. Why else would I think of Ah Mah every time I reach for a packet of sago in the supermarket? Whenever I cut into a mound of cold sago streaked with gula Melaka syrup and santan?
‘Cannot be lah!’ I could tell how bothered Mum was from the way her colonial-school English turned into colloquial Manglish. ‘Doesn’t sound like something she knew how to make.’
‘Who else could it be? It definitely wasn’t you.’ My mother considered me a hindrance rather than help in the kitchen when I was younger.
‘And I can’t think of anyone else who could have taught me.’ My voice began to rise. Suddenly it felt important, the certainty of this memory I had carried for years.
Mum went silent, her forehead furrowed.
‘Mmm…she had this friend who was a very good cook. That Ah Soh who worked with Ah Yeh in Temerloh. Maybe they cooked together. Maybe she’s the one lah, who showed Ah Mah how to make it,’ she finally conceded. I exhaled with relief.
But my mother had already planted doubt. A tiny seed that began to grow when I realised later that Sago Gula Melaka wasn’t something my family ate until I began making it.
Sago Gula Melaka is not a Hainanese dish. It is a Malaysian dessert that involves pouring santan or coconut milk and gula Melaka syrup over chilled sago. Making the perfect bowl isn’t straightforward, as the neutral sago is a blank canvas for customising the amounts of gula Melaka and santan according to one’s preference. My perfect Sago Gula Melaka must have the right balance of both for a smooth, sweet-savoury blend that melds with the jelly-like sago. But others may prefer more santan, allowing its richness to drown the complexity of gula Melaka. While some would favour a heavy-handed drizzle of the syrup so its smoky caramel flavour dominates, potentially tipping the pudding towards bitterness.
Remembering my Ah Mah is like trying to make the perfect bowl of Sago Gula Melaka.
My impressions of my grandmother are cobbled together from my memories and from what I’ve heard from other people. They are coloured by Dad’s disregard for her, tinged with Mum’s bitterness from years of unresolved grievances. All the more reason to hold on to my one good memory of Ah Mah – that moment when I saw her as a grandmother handing down a recipe to her only granddaughter. Never mind that it wasn’t a Hainanese one.
Even as I question the veracity of that memory, I realise it would be very easy to remember her as the villain depicted in other people’s stories; as one-dimensional as having too much rich santan in my Sago Gula Melaka. Or I could choose to allow her human complexity to shine, both the bitter and the sweet.
Fifth Course: A Can of Ensure
Corn Syrup. Corn Maltodextrin. Sugar.
Vegetable Oils. Soy Protein Isolate. Calcium Caseinate.
The last time I saw Ah Mah was at the funeral parlour.
She was ninety one when she died in the old folks’ home where she had spent the last decade of her life. But she looked much younger in the flower-framed portrait that took centre stage of the altar set at the foot of her casket. It was an image from my childhood; a photograph of Ah Mah taken when she was in her sixties, her face dominated by those dark-rimmed glasses. Not even the lit candles and joss-sticks placed in front of the portrait could hide her austere stare or her pinched smile.
The scent of sandalwood filled the room along with the chants of Buddhist prayers transmitted through hidden speakers. Wreaths of yellow and white chrysanthemums surrounded the casket. So peaceful, so serene, we said to one another. The undertakers had done a beautiful job. But it was my mother who had organised everything with them, making decisions about the flowers, the recorded prayers, even the traditional Chinese gown Ah Mah was wearing.
‘I leave it to you,’ Dad had said when Mum asked him about the arrangements for Ah Mah’s funeral. Auntie Jay also deferred to her: ‘You decide; you’re the daughter-in-law.’
So Mum handled everything. Just as she had done when Ah Mah had to be moved into the old folks’ home because she could no longer care for herself. Mum was the only person who visited my grandmother regularly, when she went to pay the home’s fees each month. She would stay long enough for a chat with Shirley, the manager of the home, and to give Ah Mah the wonton noodles or pork congee she had brought for her. Mum was also the last family member to see my grandmother, on the evening before she died.
When Shirley called to say Ah Mah was refusing food, it was my mother who drove over. But first she stopped at the pharmacy for a can of Ensure nutrition powder. All Mum needed to do when she got to the home was add water to the fast-absorbing maltodextrin and fortifying soy protein isolate to make an instant liquid meal.
Later that night Mum told me how she knew, when she saw my grandmother, that she wasn’t going to last for much longer. She described how Ah Mah sat sunken in her chair, too weak to speak. How she only looked up when my mother held her head and tried to feed her spoonfuls of Ensure. How despite her frailness, my grandmother managed to curl her right hand into a fist and cover it with her left palm, how she dipped her forehead towards her clasped hands and bowed several times to Mum. I will always remember the way my mother’s voice wobbled when she recalled Ah Mah’s gesture of gratitude and respect for her.
I thought of this as I leaned into my grandmother’s open casket to say my final goodbye. With her eyes closed, her face in repose, she barely resembled the stern woman in her portrait. In death Ah Mah looked regal, dressed in her traditional gown with her hair neatly combed and her face powdered and made up. She looked like the matriarch she should have been.
Returning to the altar, I lit several joss-sticks. I held them aloft and bowed in front of Ah Mah’s portrait, allowing the ribbons of incense to smoke and spiral upwards.
