Siew May had been playing masak-masak with the twins. Everything had been fine until she refused to eat the rice they had cooked over a real fire. It was a horrid day. She pattered into the cool of the house. As she crossed the hall, the clock struck three. It was almost time for the hawker to be coming along. She thought of his bucket of gluey sweet. At times when he felt generous, he would dip into his pail and scoop up a sizeable amount to wind round the ten-cent stick. It would be brown, golden brown, very sticky, very sweet. You could suck it, or nibble the edges, or, best of all, by gripping a bit between the teeth, pull fine plastic strips from the whole and pile or loop them into all sorts of shapes. And it would last for at least a quarter of an hour or more if you happened to get an especially large blob. At the thought, she made her way swiftly to her grandmother’s room. She saw her mother and uncle together. They were whispering urgently. She was just able to catch her uncle’s last words, “. . . send her to Sam Poh Tong at once.”

“Mama! Uncle!”

“Shh! Not so loud.. .. Run along now, Uncle and I are very busy. . . . No, don’t go in—Grandmother is very ill.”

“Why?”

But her mother was already pushing her away.

As she watched her daughter scampering off, Mrs. Wong heaved a sigh of relief. Really, Siew May’s interminable questions often tried her patience. Only the Lord Buddha knew the trials she had undergone. For years she had been nursing her bedridden mother. Why, even the neighbors were perpetually surprised at the extent of her filial devotion. It was indeed fortunate that one of these good people had happened to visit her that morning. Earlier, Mrs. Wong had brought her mother the breakfast broth which she had carefully prepared with her own hands. But not a mouthful was taken. So Mrs. Wong gave in to what she thought was the old woman’s peevish whim. Never would she permit any word of complaint to pass through her lips—not a single word. But Mrs. Lee had been so concerned that she allowed herself the luxury of the faintest sigh, expressing regretfully her own anxiety over her mother’s growing fretfulness and the waste of the fine broth. Mrs. Lee was all sympathy and wished to pay the invalid a call. Mrs. Wong remembered gazing at her mother as she led the visitor into the room. She had never failed to be amazed, even irritated, that her mother contrived to look such a gaunt derelict despite all the solicitous care. The only flabbiness about her was the heavy folds of flesh under her eyes. Her hands were lined with cordlike purple veins. The jade bracelet appeared to be more like a manacle encumbering the bony length. Meanwhile, the caller had stooped over the still form and recoiled. She was obviously in a state of agitation. In less than a second she was at the threshold beside Mrs. Wong.

“Aiiya! Your mother is dying . . .!”

The grandmother lay inert and quiet. The jade bracelet rested on her wrist—green, hard, smooth, placid. It was the one thing that could really be called her own. The rest, her earrings, chain, and rings, were safely tucked away. Her son-in-law who had been so liberal was often amused by her “hoarding.” But the bracelet was part of her, it breathed with her. She could feel its coolness and calming smoothness; Siew May had loved swivelling it round her arm. Siew May would have it once she was gone. At least she could bequeath to her young one not an heirloom but something of her, that had been part of her. . . .

Puzzled and bewildered, Siew May wandered into the kitchen. Ah Ching was there peeling potatoes. Glum, sullen most times, she was not exactly cheerful company. Just a week ago, Siew May had to admit with an uncomfortable feeling akin to shame that her mother did not cook for the family. She was the odd one out, since all her three friends’ mothers were the most domesticated creatures on earth. Ah Ching did all the housework. She was speaking to her now. Without removing her eyes from the potatoes nor pausing in her work, Ah Ching announced flatly, “Your grandmother is about to die. You know?”

“You lie. . . . Mama said she was ill and . . .”

This time the servant put down her knife and said with extreme deliberation, “She is so ill that she is dying.”

Sitting in the car, Siew May wanted her grandmother to assure her that what Ah Ching had said was all nonsense. But something held her back, awed her into unusual silence, even frightened her. Her grandmother, bundled in a blanket, was propped up in the back seat! Her mouth opened and worked, making funny motions, but no word could be heard. It gaped grotesquely speechlessly, and she was gasping as if she wanted to swallow the air. Grandmother did not speak. Nobody spoke.

The car swept up the drive of the cave temple, Sam Poh Tong, circumventing in a wide arc the lotus ponds glimmering in the late afternoon sun before grinding to a halt near a small assembly of nuns and monks. With a minimum of fuss, the grandmother was borne off to a specially arranged chamber. Two nuns came forward to direct the newcomers. Mounting the steps into the temple, they entered the main hall of worship from which branched a number of tunnels whose dark openings could be seen. The altar, massive, glittering with gold paint and vermilion lacquer, stood squarely in the centre of the hall. Gigantic effigies loomed on either side. The smoke of scented incense hung thick, slumberous, and acrid. It spread everywhere, choking the labyrinth of caves.

The passage they had to go through was a natural tunnel lit only by candles which flickered on innumerable statues almost concealed in the gloom of niches, either natural or man-hewn. Further on, with a rattle of beads, a nun rose from the shadows in which she had sat meditating or dreaming. She joined them. As they shuffled along, the tunnel echoed hollowly with the drip-drop of trickling water and the distant tock-tock beaten out rhythmically by the monks at prayers. They emerged upon an open courtyard, their eyes blinking in the light after the semi-darkness behind them.

Crossing the courtyard, Siew May spied a moss-encrusted pond partly protected by a crumbling stone balustrade. Queer black shapes bobbed to the surface of the murky green waters. Tortoises! But the little group was moving on rapidly. Perhaps later she could find an opportunity to feed them. As she caught up with the rest, it struck her that the nuns themselves looked very much like the tortoises they kept—hunched in their black robes with clean-shaven pates and long, pale, thin necks. She giggled; no one else saw the resemblance or found it funny.

Finally they arrived at the living quarters of the religious community. The rooms where they had to put up for the night were drearily uniform—yellowing mosquito nets, kerosene lamps on tables otherwise bare, and a few chairs. A mustiness pervaded and festered in the rooms, not unlike that of the incense—probably it was the mosquito nets this time.

Mrs. Lee and her brother made the necessary arrangements with the abbot. They were to stay in the temple until the grandmother “departed” and the funeral rites and cremation were duly carried out. The abbot coughed in the mustiness, and, just hesitating to recover his breath before resuming the thread of the discussion, delicately ventured a practical consideration. The coffin? Certainly the best wood possible—solid and spacious for repose. Yes, varnished without question! Such filial care! Mrs. Wong’s generosity overwhelmed him. It drew from the venerable head the smallest involuntary protest . . . but who was he, a mere agent of the divine, to stifle such pious zeal? The donation would be put to needy use, the extension of an eastern wing perhaps.

Mrs. Wong, in a high state of pious fervor, burned two dozen joss sticks at one of the branch altars. This would be the last time that she had to shoulder the burden of her Duty. It seemed to her as if she was both daughter and son; Ah Kow was exasperatingly irresponsible. He had never been able to keep his interest and his job for long. He was lucky to have a brother-in-law who could resolve his financial difficulties. At the moment her husband was away in Hong Kong. So she had to make the decisions. Even had he been home he would not have been too pleased over being actively involved. It was rather fortunate that he was abroad. The last time he had followed a cortege, he was stricken down with fever for weeks and his business suffered. He had this allergy to deaths and funerals. Certainly superstitions were not to be scoffed at. She could manage quite well alone really.

All through the night she kept solitary watch as the dying woman lay with eyes open and staring, her breath coming in jerky rasps. Her vigil was at last relieved by a firmly insistent nun. Wearied to the bone, she sought the comfort of her bed. It seemed to her that she had barely slept for ten minutes when she awoke. It was cold but not chilly; yet she was suddenly seized by a spasm of quivering as if her very flesh was being loosed from her body. When the tremors had ceased, she was filled with uneasiness, foreboding, and an indefinable wretchedness. She threw a wrap around her shoulders and hurried out into the raw thin air of the morning. She was not aware of what she herself intended to do; but, before she had walked halfway across the court, she distinguished, with a sense of numbed shock, a billowing figure bearing down upon her. Mrs. Wong stood where she was until the nun, her robe flapping at her ankles, drew near.

“Your mother has passed away. . . .”

She caught the words as they floated to her in the stillness. She had known, even before being told. Flesh had been sundered from flesh. All the mooring ropes were untied, the ship was cast adrift, its sails billowing in the dawn breeze. . . . A wave of acute loneliness and finality engulfed her; then the ship was caught and sucked by the churning waters; how it struggled to surface!

The nun stood hunched against the whipping cold wind—like a tortoise, Mrs. Wong thought. Did anyone notice the likeness, she wondered. Possibly not.

“I know. I shall be ready,” she told the nun.

It was only as they hurried along in the gloom that Mrs. Wong realized that she was crying. The tears were wet and warm on her cool cheeks. All at once she felt hatred surging uncontrollably through her. She hated her husband, hated him!

At the cremation, the fire roared about the passive mother; the flames leaped and gyrated frenziedly like things alive, their tongues licked the coffin, charring the beautiful varnished surface—outside the closed furnace, the monks sat in straight-backed chairs chanting and keeping time to the wail of their instruments. A small group of nuns wept noisily with admirable efficiency; but even veterans’ eyes and throats suffered dryness after a lengthy session. The abbot, resplendent in a bright, gaudy ceremonial gown, had offered incense, prayers, invocations, food, and wine. For Siew May the spectacle and elaborate proceedings were a feast for eyes and ears. However, as the night wore on, the novelty wore off. She was tired, but she did not relish the alternative of the temple’s hard bed and frowsy room. The monks and nuns were perspiring under the hot red glare of naked bulbs which shone on their bare heads glistening with sweat and light. She longed for the clean, cool sheets and well-plumped mattress of the bed at home and the bedtime chats with Grandmother. Suddenly, the nausea of homesickness was too much. Why were they here at all?

“I want to go home. . . . Grandmother will be waiting alone!”

Querulously loud and imperative, her voice startled the lull in the lamenting and mourning. There was not another sound to be heard. Then someone laughed. Then everybody laughed. Everyone was uproariously amused. Such naiveté in the child! The elderly members of the temple, the “ancient,” grinned, showing their cavernous mouths. Her grandmother’s mouth had gaped too; then she remembered why they had to be in the temple—because Grandmother was not at home but burning in the furnace over there. Nevertheless, the whole concourse was pleased with her. She must have said something which they considered clever. Happy in the applause she had received, Siew May fell asleep on her mother’s lap.

On the following morning, the aunt and cousins managed to arrive in time for the collection of the bones of the deceased. Each relative was given a pair of chopsticks with which to pick from the ashes the bones that could conveniently be stored in a porcelain urn. Mrs. Wong chose to discard the chopsticks because the remains of her own mother, she declared, appeared perfectly clean to her. The rest followed her example. During the sorting, the jade bracelet was discovered; it was amazingly whole—not a single crack flawed its surface; it was no longer clear green but semi-white, like concrete ash. All admired and wondered at its intact wholeness. The daughter held it gingerly in the palm of her hand. Her mother had given express instructions that the bracelet should be for Siew May. It was really an absurd fancy on the old woman’s part. Mrs. Wong was a rather sentimental person. She had not been able to bring herself to remove the object before the cremation. Even the monks and nuns would have been horrified at her depriving her mother of such a treasured and familiar possession in the “other world.” But now it seemed that the dead had taken a hand in safeguarding her perverse wish. Her musings were interrupted by Siew May.

“Can I have it? Can I—?”

“Absurd! Ridiculous!” said Mrs. Wong, as if she was voicing aloud her own thoughts, “Uncle will have it—Ah, Fook Kee, since you are the only son in our family you ought to take it.”

“But Mama, grandmother said—”

But Siew May’s mother, with extreme deliberation, handed over the heirloom to the dubious male successor.