The Rice Mother (6 page)

“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly, unconcerned. “Whenever you need money, just ask me, and I can borrow some more. I have good credit.”

I could only stare incredulously at him. A sudden gust of wind blew into our kitchen the smell of human waste. The food inside my stomach did a small back flip, and somewhere inside my head a hammering began, a loud insistent hammering that would last me for the rest of my life with only short breaks in between. I gazed away from the dull black eyes of the lumbering beast and said nothing.

That night, by the light of a kerosene lamp, I sat cross-legged on my beautiful bench and made a list of all the debtors. I couldn’t sleep for the plans I was making. Finally, when all the night demons had flown over to the other side of the world, I lay on my stomach and watched through the open window a red dawn break over the eastern sky. The hammering in my head had relented a little. The plan was clear in my head. I made a strong brew of black tea and slowly sipped it, as my mother and her mother before her had done at the end of a long day. Before the birds began their day I bathed in icy cold water and washed my hair in coconut milk. Dressed in a clean cotton sari, I walked the one mile to the Ganesha temple just behind Apu’s provision shop. In the small temple by the dirt road I prayed with all my heart, so sincerely that tears escaped from my closed eyelids. I begged Lord Ganesha to make my plan work and my new life a happy one. I then put ten cents into the donation box by the Elephant God, who was ever merciful and tenderhearted, and rubbing holy ash on my forehead, I walked back.

When I arrived home, my husband had just awakened. The crackle of the radio filled the small house. I made gruel and coffee for him. Watching him eat, I suddenly felt strong and protective toward him, our house, and our new life together. After my husband had left, I sat down and composed a letter, a very important one. Then I walked into town. At the post office I posted the letter to my uncle, the mango dealer. He lived with his wife in Seremban, another state in Malaya. I had a proposition for him. I wanted to borrow the total amount of debt that was owed by my husband plus a little more to tide me over until the next pay packet arrived. In exchange I would pay him some interest, and he could keep my box of jewels as collateral. My jewels, I knew, were worth far more than the amount I was asking. My mother had given me a ruby pendant nearly as large as my smallest toe, and that alone, I knew, was worth a great deal of money. It was a beautiful stone with a strange hot light inside that in the sunlight breathed red fire like a live thing. After I had posted the letter, I went to the market. In those days the market was a fascinating place full of splendid things I had never seen before.

I stood before piles of black salted eggs, one or two on top of the pile left open to expose yolks the color of blood. Chinese men in wooden clogs squatted on the ground selling little clouds of birds’ nests. Inside wire cages large lizards scurried about with nervous, jerky movements at the sight of slithering snakes in other cages. There was fresh everything in woven baskets, and Malay women traders with gold teeth sold soft turtle eggs in wire baskets.

In one corner an ancient Chinese woman, barely able to walk, hobbled about selling strangely twisted mud-colored sea cucumbers, hardened black seaweed, and a whole cornucopia of unidentifiable creatures swimming in water-filled wooden buckets. Trappers chewing betel nut waited patiently behind stacks of wild roots and bunches of medicinal leaves. Sometimes in their hands they held the tails of four or five live snakes that writhed and stretched themselves out on the pavement in front of them. People bought those slim, multicolored, snakes for medicinal purposes. There were vats full of yellow noodles and rows of roasted ducks hanging by their greasy necks, still dripping fat. Of course the frogs were the real surprise; white and disemboweled, they lay spread-eagled on slabs of wood. But on that day I didn’t linger. I was on a mission.

I quickly purchased a very small piece of meat, some vegetables, a bag of tamarind, and a
dulang
washer’s large, broad-brimmed hat for five cents and made for the jetty, where I bought a handful of shrimp. Mother had a very special recipe for shrimp, and I was certain I knew how to make it. Head bent and totally lost in my own thoughts of a rosy future, I retraced my steps home. In front of me my shadow was very long and eager. I was so intent upon the execution of all my carefully hatched plans that I jumped when another shadow joined mine. I looked around and found the face that had stared so curiously from the open window of Old Soong’s house, smiling a shy, uncertain smile. Two long black plaits ending in childish pink bows hung on either side of her face. Why, she was only as old as I was. A pair of jet-black eyes sparkled in her round face.

Mui Tsai (Little Sister) in reality, I later found out, was a pitiful domestic slave. I smiled back tentatively. I had found a friend, but it was to be the beginning of a lost friendship. If I had known then what I know now, I would have treasured her more. She was the only true friend I ever made. She tried to communicate with me in Malay, but the language was still an unfamiliar mixture of sounds to me, and we only managed a series of hand gestures. I decided to ask Ayah to teach me to speak proper Malay. We parted company at the gates of her house. She hurried indoors with her basket heavy with market produce.

As soon as I got home, I hunted around in the kitchen and found a very long, rusty old knife that in its heyday had probably been used to crack coconuts. Then I donned the petticoat that one wears inside the sari. On top of that I wore an old frayed shirt that belonged to my husband. The shirtsleeves came over my hands, and I looked at the overlap with satisfaction. Then I placed a huge man’s handkerchief over my head and tied it under my chin. I popped my new
dulang
-washer hat on top of my head and, satisfied that I was completely protected from the cruel sun, opened the green back door and began to clear away the weeds, long grasses, and nasty brambles that cut my hands and made them bleed. Stinging plants grew abundantly in every square yard, but I was absolutely determined. Then, I didn’t know how deeply buried were the hearts of unwanted vegetation. For years we battled until the day I returned the land to them, but that day I stopped, curving knife in hand, believing the hard earth had been tamed, ready for planting.

When finally I came in, sweat dripped off me and ran down my body in rivulets. My back ached horribly, and muscles in innocent places screamed with pain, but I felt pleasure, real pleasure at a job well done. After a cold shower I soothed my swollen hands with sesame seed oil. Then I began to cook, following Mother’s precise instructions carefully. I marinated the meat in spices and left the potent mixture to gently simmer in a heavy closed pot for the next few hours. While it simmered, I cleaned and pounded the shrimp. Then I grated fresh coconut for a special sambal of chilies and onions. I cooked eggplant in a little water that had turmeric and salt in it, and when it became soft, I crushed it into a chunky paste, adding coconut milk, and let it come to the boil. I sliced potatoes and fried them with a little curry powder. The onions and tomatoes I chopped and mixed with fresh yogurt. A meal fit for a king nearly ready, I set about cleaning the house. I was feeling quite pleased with all the lovely aromas coming from the kitchen when I found pieces of a ripped letter inside Ayah’s tobacco tin. Stupidly I stared at the bits of neat handwriting. I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. I scooped up the pieces and, laying the fragments of blue handwriting flat on the bed, read the letter that had arrived for my husband yesterday.

I stopped reading. The rest of the letter from Aunty Pani was a blur. My legs suddenly weak, I sat down heavily on the bed. Then I understood why she had come for me that day, the speculative look in her sly eyes. She had wanted to keep the children as her means of income for many years to come. She had come to a poor woman’s house looking for a malleable young wife. One she could manipulate. At that moment I felt as if I hated her. How hateful her demanding tone. Did she fancy my husband’s head a footstool? It made my blood boil with anger. I had barely had a good meal since the day I got married, and for the next eight months, if my plan was to work, I would have to save and scrape to get by, let alone send more money. Wouldn’t it be a good lesson for her if we simply didn’t send the money? But then in my mind rose the picture of two small children, their eyes barren and hopeless, their dark skin stretched tight over wide cheekbones, the innocence and stupidity indisputable for all to see. Even their teeth, so bored with sitting inside such empty heads that they jutted out in two uneven yellow rows to stare at the world outside. Doubtless the children were nothing more than slaves to the crafty woman.

I closed my eyes and experienced profound defeat and the first flash of real anger that I had been so spectacularly used. Had it not been for Pani’s pretty lies, I could still have been at home with my beloved mother. But the truth, no matter how horrible it makes me look, was that I didn’t want my stepchildren to live with me.

We would have to send the money. We had no choice.

Then the beauty of youth stepped in. As spring touches new leaves on withered branches, youth decided that my plan could stretch to an allowance for my stepchildren. My mother and I had suffered because my father did not bother to send us money. I would do better than my father. We simply wouldn’t have meat until all our bills were settled. We would live on our vegetable patch outside and the eggs our hens laid when we had our chicken coop installed. By the time I went into the kitchen to stir the meat, the bounce was back in my step.

That evening my husband returned with cash that he had borrowed from the moneylender to send to his children, a newspaper-wrapped present for me, and a piece of wood that he wanted to carve with. He put my present beside me on the bench and waited. I looked at his expectant face and then at the unwanted newspaper-wrapped present, and I wanted to scream with pure frustration. At this rate we would never climb out of our snake pit of debts. How to explain that I’d rather starve for a month than endure a line of moneylenders outside the house every payday? I took a deep breath, bit my tongue, and untied the string. The newspaper tore open, and my animosity died in my throat. Inside was the most adorable pair of high-heeled gold slippers adorned with colored beads that I had ever seen in my life. With something akin to reverence I placed them on the gray concrete floor. They were absolutely the prettiest things I owned, and enchanted, I slipped my feet between the dainty gold ropes. They fitted perfectly. The heels would take a bit of getting used to, but already I loved my new acquisition.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my head bowed with humble gratitude.

He was a good man, my husband, but we were still doing it my way. First he had his sumptuous meal, and then I told him of my plan. He listened in silence. Finally, taking a deep breath and looking him directly in the eye, I told him that from now on I would be the only one paying the bills. He would receive a small allowance to buy a newspaper or a cup of coffee from the canteen at work, but he could borrow no more money and was to refer to me on anything pertaining to our financial health. He nodded and tenderly stroked my hair with his big hand, but his dull eyes were ravaged. “As you wish, my darling wife,” he agreed.

“And one more thing. Will you teach me to speak Malay?”

“Boleh.” He smiled at me.

I knew that word. It meant “yes.” I smiled back.

“Terima Kasih.” Thank you, in Malay.

By the end of that week, my vegetable garden was planted. A man from across the main road built me a chicken coop, and I filled it with soft yellow chicks. As I stood under my
dulang
washer’s hat proudly surveying my new plot of cultivated land, my uncle, the mango merchant, arrived groaning under the weight of a huge sack of mangoes. At the sight of his familiar brown face I dashed away tears of joy and ran to hug his round figure. I didn’t know how lonely I was until I saw him. He had brought the money I had requested, heartily laughing away as ridiculous my idea of collateral. After he left I ate six mangoes in quick succession and then, inexplicably, walked to the stove, picked up a piece of charcoal, and began to nibble at it.

That was when I knew I was pregnant.

The weeks were swallowed by the hungry months that lay waiting in my garden. My little plot prospered. I ran my fingers down the velvety skin of a new crop of okra, was surprised by the redness of my bird’s-eye chilies, and grew especially proud of my shiny purple eggplants. And my chicken coop was a success even before my belly filled out the space in front of me. I was happy and satisfied. The debts were taken care of, and I had even begun to save a modest amount inside a small tin that I hid in the rice sack.

At night, after all the human voices died down, after the plates had been washed, light switches turned off, and the neighborhood put away to sleep, I lay awake. Sleep refused to rest awhile upon my eyelids. He crossed his arms and looked at me wickedly from afar. So I spent many hours lying flat on my back, staring out of the window at the star-filled night sky, learning Malay, and filling my head with impatient dreams of my unborn baby. I imagined a cherubic baby boy with gorgeous ringlets and sparkling eyes. Always in my day-dreams he wore clever, large eyes that darted about in alert intelligence, but always in my nightmares a thin, emaciated infant with small, dull eyes and stretched shiny skin would stare beseechingly at me, begging for a little love. I would jerk awake suddenly. Guilt for my abandoned stepchildren like a small furry bee inside my heart lifted its furry front legs and tapped a soft little reminder. My young heart would miss a beat in pure shame. Before dawn I would bathe and make my way to the temple. There I would make offerings and earnestly pray that my child would look nothing like the waif of my nightmares.