and may all your dreams and wishes come true.On 26 December every year in Singapore, there is a mad rush – tinsel is hurriedly ripped from banisters and shoved away, red paper lanterns yanked from the dusty boxes where they’d been stored the year before, and Mariah Carey finally shuts up to make way for the dramatic cymbal crashes of 大地回春. Because obviously, when Christmas Day is over, Chinese New Year begins. Immediately. Out you pop and on you go, Jesus, sorry! The thing about Chinese New Year is it’s pretty much the same concept as Christmas – you meet family, drink a lot of alcohol, then cook a lot of food and eat it – and yet it couldn’t feel more different. Even though they’re like…a month apart. Two, at the most. Maybe it’s just my family, but the most exciting thing on Christmas Day would be midnight mass; and strangely enough, I can never recall actually doing anything fun on Christmas. Or anything that justifies the month-long lead up to it, what with the atmospheric hustle and bustle of shopping, sales, and non-stop Christmas music. Christmas Day itself didn’t really need actual celebration, it was very much just about going to church for Jesus’ coming. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy about that. I love Jesus. But nothing truly joyful happens after. We don’t do Christmas parties, or whole-family gatherings, or Secret Santa gift exchanges. And there’s no cake. I recall how I spent the last Christmas – shopping online on lululemon’s winter sale and watching five episodes of K-Drama with my mum. And the one before – taking pictures at Edinburgh Castle (because it was the only clear day that week) then running straight back home to avoid the cold and – surprise! – watch eight episodes of another K-Drama. And I’ve always wondered: where is the joy? The celebration, the jubilation, the upholding of family, the season of compassion and giving? The rebuilding of friendships, the reconnecting over food and laughter? Christmas Day is, to me, perhaps the lamest day in the whole of December. And then dong dong dong qiang season rolls around. And through the endless repetitions of 贺新年 and 恭喜恭喜 in supermarkets, the stacks of empty angpao packets handed out at petrol kiosks, waiting to be filled with crisp, richly aromatic, freshly printed ten-dollar notes sporting the face of Yusof Bin Ishak gazing serenely out, moustache combed ever so neatly – I feel it. This is what I spend the whole year waiting for. Gradually, the whole of Singapore becomes adorned in red – the streets pulsate with life, every GONG XI FA CAI couplet quivers with anticipation. My mother’s voice starts echoing louder and louder from the kitchen, listing off the 537594 things to clean, oranges to buy, cucumbers to grate (because the real ones make their own lohei instead of buying it from DonDonDonki), pomelos to peel, snacks to order… the frenzy is infectious. And I go shopping for my 除夕, 初一 and 初二 outfits as my father lowers himself onto a chair at the dining table, sighing loudly with stacks of bills in hand as he apportions the appropriate sum to each angbao. $100 for children, $20 for first cousins, $10 for children of friends and friends of children, $6 for the random lucky kid who got brought along that day… The whole week before Chinese New Year, no one feels like doing work. Every brain in every school, office, home, is fixated upon the four imminent days of nonstop socializing and face-stuffing; of mahjong rounds and rowdy laughter. When 除夕dawns bright and early, I leap out of bed to go to school in the cute qipao I’d picked out weeks before, the prospect of a half-day, chocolate coins, and lessons replaced with lantern decorating competitions too alluring to miss. School ends, I am off to my paternal grandparents’ house for a quick reunion lunch, then whisked to Malaysia, where the maternal grandparents and packets of fireworks await. And that’s when the true festivities begin. As a child, this was the highlight of every Chinese New Year (it probably still is). I distinctly recall how, sitting at the dining table eating breakfast, I’d see a stack of passports with the familiar white and green Malaysian immigration checkpoint entry card slipped in between and feel my excitement mount, because ‘Malaysia’ and ‘holiday’ were synonymous. Now, with duffel bag and 初一 dress in tow, my family and I confront the agonizing three-hour traffic jam across the causeway. I no longer sleep across the back seat of the car to the strains of GOLD 90.5FM – instead I am scrolling through Instagram story after story of reunion meals, photos of oranges against a backdrop of landed housing estates, and friends’ family pictures. Inch by inch, the traffic crawls, and when we finally get to the familiar maroon driveway, Grandpa stands at the front porch waving his hands in greeting, beckoning us into the familiar warmth of his house. The house is the same as it has always been every Chinese New Year. A pole stands propped up over the garden wall where the midnight firecracker will be hung up, the dark leaves of carefully tended potted plants are punctured with angbaos that have been stapled on and an orange sits atop the corner of every table for good luck. My mother’s old room – which I now think of as mine – smells ever so slightly musty, from almost a full year of disuse. The sheets are clean though – Grandpa’s changed them, in spite of our less-than-24-hour stay. He always does. In the upstairs lounge area, dust motes hang in the air, haloed by the glow of the tropical 4pm sun. I pause. Standing on the staircase landing, gazing out onto the road winding through the estate, time seems to have stopped. Every nook, every crevice of this house has a story. A memory of pillow forts on the sofa, of tiny limbs crammed into a corner behind the speaker for a game of hide and seek, of dances across the expanse of bedroom floor, dark and firm beneath my feet. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Mothballs and wood. Safety. Familiarity. Childhood. My reminiscing is broken by a sharp peal of laughter from downstairs – Auntie’s animated voice filters past the pillars lining the staircase banister and I turn to go downstairs, descending back to the world of the present. Mum is lounged languidly across the squashy sofa, chatting to her, Nana and Datuk. Grandpa and Uncle are deep in conversation at the table on the front porch, and Dad is sat on the armchair, reading the news on his phone. The gate connecting the living room and front porch is open, and a gentle wind whistles in and through to the kitchen, where I can hear Grandma washing dishes. I sigh and melt into the other end of the sofa. I am content. When night has fallen, we return from our reunion dinner full from course after course of rich Chinese delicacies for the highlight of Chinese New Year – fireworks. Because when they’re banned in Singapore, what do you do? Run to Malaysia to light them, obviously. Born of an ancient Chinese folktale involving a monstrous villager-eating creature, the tradition of lighting fireworks still lives on, with their sparks and loud noises driving the creature away even to this day. The selection at hand ranges beyond the basic packet of sparklers – there are little bees that whizz around in greenish-yellow circles, ‘Pop-Pop’ pellets that explode when flung to the ground, tubes with five or six flaming balls that shoot out when lit, and, of course, the long red tell-tale chain of firecrackers. But that last one’s for later – it isn’t midnight yet. I stare at the selection before me, spoiled for choice. Grandpa’s outdone himself again. We have long outgrown our naïve fascination with fireworks, but every year he procures them for our amusement, and every year we play with them for his. The adults watch on as I select my first round to start the evening – some good old bees, which provide a high enough risk of burning oneself to deliver a decent thrill, and a small enough spark to still be relatively safe (it hasbeen a year since I last played, after all, and these spindly limbs need time to practise running away). I squat down, light the tiny green fuse at the end, then leap away to admire my handiwork. I watch with a small smile as the bee darts through the garden, weaving around plants and scorching a tiny trail along the grass. And then ever so suddenly! – I am alight with a childlike happiness once again. The next thing I know, we’re going through pack after pack, lighting and flinging and running and laughing, occasionally stopping to watch the neighbours’ display – they invest more finances and have better ones, I admit – before lighting again. By the flickering glow of a sparkler in my hand, I see the joy on their faces. Grandpa. Grandma. Datuk. Nana. Auntie. Cousin. Mum. Dad. Jie. This moment burns brightly in the warm, humid night as I raise the sparkler and begin to draw against the canvas of my family; a star for you, a star for me, a heart for us – patterns that sear themselves onto the back of my retina, where I pray they never fade away. As the night descends further into darkness, the houses grow more alive. The gates are open, the residents are mingling, the children are playing. Everyone is awake, awaiting the toll of the midnight bell. At 11.50pm, Grandpa goes into the house, and grabs one, two, three chains of firecrackers (one is obviously too little excitement to justify the year-long wait for this moment). He attaches one to the pole in the garden, and Uncle ties the ends of all three together. Adjacent to us, the neighbour does the same, laying his firecracker chain on the floor in a winding snake. All along the row of houses, people are laying their firecrackers out, while the rest of the family emerges and gathers a safe distance away across the street. As the numbers on digital display screens flash from 11.59 to 12.00, Uncle bends down – unhurried, unfazed – and lights the fuse. There is a brief moment of silence in the first few seconds of the new year as the whole world holds still. And then all at once, it explodes. Firecrackers down the street and through the neighbourhood are ignited simultaneously, propelling their still-hot debris across driveways. My eyes and nose are stinging from gunpowder as the seemingly never-ending series of cracks and bangs rains assault upon my ears. All around me, bits of exploded firecracker are flying across the scene and smoke clouds my vision, but muffled shrieks of exclamation filter through my plugged ears. At the same time, the surrounding houses light their grandest fireworks display, which soar into the night sky and burst overhead in a shimmering cascade of gold, green, red, pink and purple. Through the veil of smoke, I can make out the sheer delight on every face as we watch on in delight. These few minutes seem to stretch on for much longer – we are transfixed with awe, trapped in a singular moment of pure jubilation as the new year charges in with the sheer might of a dragon. As the last firecracker finally goes out with an almighty bang, I am engulfed in sticky embraces and shouts of ‘Happy new year!’ which I reciprocate gladly, giddy with delight and high off the smell of gunpowder that lingers in the air. I pass myself from relative to relative, hugging, grasping hands, smiling, celebrating with the ones I hold the closest. And when I finally get to the end, a red packet is placed in my hands, accompanied by a firm whisper: ‘步步高升,心想事成’. This year, as the first rays of 初一 illuminate the pink flakes of paper – remnants from last night’s firecracker – scattered upon the suburban driveway that I spent all my school holidays running about, I will not be sound asleep in the house within. When the car backs out of the driveway to ferry its occupants back across the causeway, I will not be sat inside. Instead I am miles away in the heart of London, at a table with just Jie and me. It is laden not with delicacies, but simple everyday dishes – dimsum and dumplings. In the evening, I have dinner in a flat that I have spent a mere five months in, with friends who have traversed the ocean alongside me. We wish each other ‘Happy new year!’ over an electric hotpot, eat, talk and laugh, though there are no fireworks to play with and no angbaos to collect. The streets are cold and quiet, the gates are shut. But later that night, when I retire to my room, I retrieve an old red packet that was passed to me the year before. Opening it, I carefully extract its contents – I know what is inside, I’ve opened it many times. From beneath the flap emerges a single slip of paper, on which is written in beautiful calligraphy my name, alongside the same greeting I had been hearing for years in that familiar driveway.
‘步步高升,心想事成。’ ‘Climb high, rise above, and may all the wishes of your heart come true.’
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
archives
January 2023
categories |