The River’s Song

Chapter 2

2“You know what kind of woman your mother is? A w***e!” The man spat.

His spit scalded my thigh and burnt through my school uniform.

“w***e’s daughter!” He spat at me a second time.

I turned and fled, pushing against the arms and legs of people on the sidewalk.

“I’m not her daughter! Not her daughter!” I remember yelling.

*

– Damn! Why am I thinking of such things this morning? What is it with mothers and daughters? Even two oceans and a continent can’t keep her claws off me. When I close my eyes, I can see the flash of her red fingernails, the white of her thighs, peeping from the slits of her tight-fitting qipao.

Home for us then was a tiny room on the first floor of the coffee shop in a row of three-storey shophouses in Pagoda Street. Our room had no window, unlike Aunty Molek’s room whose window looked into the communal kitchen where the women cooked their meals. There were sixteen of us – women and children – living on this floor, not counting the men who came and went as they pleased. Fathers were dispensable in this tenement, except for Old Kim, the owner of the coffee shop and our landlord, who lived downstairs with his wife, Kim Poh, and their brat, Fatt Chye. Old Kim’s three married sons by his first wife lived on the floor above us with their families.

I remember waking up with a start. Grunts and moans were coming from the bed above my head. Lying very still on my sleeping mat on the floor at the foot of my mother’s bed, I wondered if someone had come back with her while I was asleep. I didn’t open my eyes to look. I didn’t want to see the moving shadows. I willed myself to go back to sleep, and wished I were dead. I dreaded going to school the next day. The thought of having to face Linda Tan and her friends made me ill. They had seen the man spit on me. They had heard every word he said. The whole class, no, the whole school, would soon know about my mother. I shut my eyes tightly, and used a pillow to cover my ears.

Towards dawn, I crept downstairs and slipped out into the back alley. This was where we children played, and where strange men came to pee into the drain. My back alley was a planet away from Linda’s home on Ann Siang Hill where children, watched over by their grandmothers, rode tricycles on the sidewalks, and little girls skipped rope singing Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, turn around. In my back alley, we played catch, five-stones and police-and-thieves. I hid behind the stacks of firewood piled up against the wall, and waited for the sun to rise before running away.

“Wong Ping Ping! Come out of there!”

Ah Chek who fetched me to school in his trishaw pulled me out from the woodpile. He hauled me back into the coffee shop and up the stairs.

“Mama! Mama! Please don’t cane me!” I begged, but her cane sliced my cheek like a red-hot butter knife.

“Don’t ever call me Mama again! No man will marry me if he knows I’ve a daughter. From now on, call me Ah-ku. You understand? Ah-ku, not Mama.”

That’s a lie, I thought, but she wanted to be known as my paternal aunt: Ah-ku – not mother. Well, I didn’t want her to be my mother. She was a… a… Tears fell as I struggled to utter the word, ‘w***e’ inside my heart.

“Ingrate!” she screeched. “Other girls yearn to go to school but cannot go! You! I give you the chance to study and you want to run away? I queued up for hours to get you a place in the convent school! Rat’s s**t!”

Her cane bit my shoulders, tore my back and struck my eyes. If not for my arm shielding my face, I would’ve been blinded. Angry red welts sprouted on my arms and legs. I bit my lips to stop from crying out. Crying would make it worse. She was not the sort who melted at a child’s cries.

“Why are you running away? Am I not feeding you well? I would’ve given an arm and a leg to go to school. I begged my foster mother to send me to school. But the witch refused. Now I’m sending you to school, and you run away? Go then!” She pushed me out of the room. “Go! Go!” I was pushed toward the stairs.

“Spit! Spit! He spat on me!” I clung to the banisters.

“Who spat on you?”

*

The next morning, Ah-ku marched downstairs, armed with a bamboo pole. The morning sky was streaked red and orange, and the rooftops of Pagoda Street were aflame. Whiffs of burnt toast and sweet coconut and egg jam rose from the stove in Old Kim’s coffee shop. Truck drivers and trishaw riders wolfing down their pork buns and char siew pao were shocked to see her up so early. Ignoring their calls, she hoisted the bamboo pole onto her shoulders. This was the pole she used for hanging up her bras and panties to dry. The very thing to bang on a bully’s door.

“Hey, Yoke Lan! Where’re you going?” Old Kim called out to her.

Ah-ku stomped past him without answering. If she were to speak, she would explode. At the junction of South Bridge Road, she held up her pole to stop the traffic, and crossed the road amidst a blare of angry horns. Her long hair twirled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, she marched up Ann Siang Hill. Men on their way to work gawked. They had seen her at places they would never bring their wives to. Three young hoods wolf-whistled at her as she strode past. These sons of sows had nothing better to do, she thought. Two housewives waddled past. “A roadside bloom,” one of them with a neck wreathed in gold chains sniffed. The two snooty cows looked her up and down. She returned their bovine gaze till they looked away. She knew how respectable women regarded her – a siren strumming her pipa to entice their menfolk.

She stopped in front of a terrace of two-storey townhouses. The house in the middle was painted a pale green with dark green shutters, and pretty squares of pink and green floral tiles beneath its windows. She checked the house number. Yes, this was it. Her bamboo pole hit the front door. A woman’s head popped out of the window on the upper floor.

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk to your mister.”

The woman’s head disappeared. Minutes later, it popped out again.

“My husband says he doesn’t know you.”

“Tell him I want to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t talk to women like you.”

“What’s wrong with women like me? Aren’t you a woman yourself?”

The window slammed shut. She raised her pole and hit its shutters again and again till the window opened and the woman’s head reappeared.

“My husband says he does not talk to women like you!”

“Tell him to fall on his knees! Kowtow to Lord Buddha that a woman like me wants to talk to a coward like him!”

A crowd gathered round. She turned to them.

“Aunties! Uncles! You be the judge. This man works in an office. He went to an English school. He speaks English! He’s educated. He’d passed exams. And yet…” She held up her forefinger. “And yet he daren’t come out to face me! Do you know why?”

“Tell us why!”

“Aah, I will, Uncle. That I will. This man! This man has a small heart. A small man with a small heart. For only a small-hearted man will spit on a small child.”

“Hey! If you blacken my husband’s name, he will sue you!”

“Go ahead! Sue me! Let him tell the judge why he spat on a child and called her aunt a w***e! Do you know why? You’re his wife. Let me tell you. Your husband. He spat on a little girl. Not because the little girl did him wrong. No! Because of me! I didn’t want to drink with him in the teahouse. So he beat the dog to spite its owner. You go and tell that husband of yours! The dog’s owner is here!”

“He has nothing to do with the likes of you! You’re mad!”

“Aunties! Uncles! Here I stand. Am I mad? I’m waiting for her husband to be a man. Let him come out and spit on me, the adult. Not the child. The child has done nothing wrong. Her only crime was to be born the daughter of a pipa songstress! We’re not whores! We sing for men. It’s true. We entertain men. It’s true. We keep them company at night. That’s also true. It’s not high-class work. Not like office work. But work is work! Do we steal from you? Do we rob? Do we beg? Have we no pride? No skill? Which of you can play the pipa like us? We pipa girls, we sell our music and our songs. Night after night, we sing for pigs like her husband! We mop his brow. We laugh at his jokes. We listen to him complain about his wife when he should be at home. With devoted wives like you, Aunties.”

The women nodded, and the men, looking foolish, smiled.

“I ask you. Which man will spit on a child? Not a man, I tell you, but a flea! A flea in the dog’s backside. Look! There it goes! Look! Insect!” She stamped her foot on the imaginary bug. She raised her bamboo pole and brought it down hard on the invisible insect. “Damn flea!”

The people laughed. “Crush the insect!” they shouted.

Her bamboo pole hit the earth again. And again. The crowd cheered her on. Oh, she’s audacious, this hussy! They applauded her. “Bravo! Bravo!”

“Thank you. Thank you.” A low, theatrical bow. “Thank you, Uncles and Aunties.”

She hoisted the bamboo pole onto her shoulders once again, and marched back to Pagoda Street with the crowd following her. The housewives fanned out to the market and shops, eager to tell their friends and neighbours what they had witnessed. All morning, stories about the pipa songstress, her bamboo pole and the flea in a dog’s backside flew like crows all over the market place. That night, men flocked to the teahouse to hear her play, and the Pipa Queen of Chinatown was born.

*

– Wallet. Checked.

– Credit cards. Checked.

– Pipa. Checked.

– What else now? What else should I pack?

I sit down on my bed, overcome by fatigue. Outside a cold, grey fog hangs over Berkeley’s rooftops. The university’s trees have turned a dull grey-green. The rain is showing no sign of stopping.

– I insist this time you stay with Kit and me. Plenty of room in the flat now that the b***h and John have moved out with their two boys. Now I’ve one son less. And no grandsons. No more trouble from that lot.

– You will stay with me, won’t you, Ping?

I thought I heard a catch in Ah-ku’s voice on the phone, just a tiny quaver locked within her combative tone. Hardly noticeable, but I’d heard it, and the upshot was that I agreed to stay with her and Kit during my two-month sabbatical in Singapore. I am to fly home in time to celebrate her sixtieth birthday.

She’s still Ah-ku or Aunt to me after all these years. I can’t call her ‘Mother’. In fact, I had stopped thinking of her as my mother when she forced me to leave Singapore at seventeen. I try to suppress my apprehension. What if I’m wrong about that catch in her voice? Ah-ku does not cry easily.

My memories are stirring up a storm. The girl is slipping in and out of my head as I pack the old pipa into its worn leather case, its faded red string still tied to the handle. I had never thought of cutting it off.

I see my six year-old self holding Ah-ku’s pipa. Sunlight was streaming down from the skylight in the roof. It lit up the pipa in my arms. My fingers stroked the glowing beauty, its body curved like a golden brown pear. I touched its four strings gently, and plucked one of them. A soft ‘ping!’ uttered my name scattering silvery dust across that room above Old Kim’s coffee shop. I plucked it again. An arrow hissed across the sky. An emperor cried, ‘Ambush!’ His cry pierced my heart. I hugged the pipa tight against my chest. The cry of the betrayed emperor is the start of the most complex piece of pipa music in its ancient repertoire. Starry-eyed, I dreamt of playing it some day.

– Rat’s s**t! A violent kick sent the pipa flying cross the room.

– Did I send you to school to play this damn thing? Ah-ku’s cane flamed my arm; her knuckles almost cracked my skull.

Shocked, I blink away my sudden tears. Half a century has passed, yet the memory still hurts. There’s something cruel, violent and lyrical in the music of the pipa, I often tell my freshmen class in UC, Berkeley. Originally designed for strumming on horseback, the pipa sings of war and heartbreak. Plucking its strings, Chinese military musicians had led thousands to their death in the snowy plains of the Yellow River. Like flies they fell building the Great Wall in the bitter snow, while the Son of Heaven and his concubines played their pipas to serenade a lonely moon in the Forbidden City. Once, an imperial maid playing the four-string lute caught the Emperor’s eye. In a fit of violent jealousy, the Empress ordered the maid’s hands chopped off and her eyes gouged out and served to the Emperor on a golden platter at the imperial banquet.

Do you know of any scholar who’d kept count of the number of women killed, abused or sold into slavery in the history of the pipa? Find out and tell me after the summer break. It’s the signature assignment for my course on Asian music each year. Sometimes, I play them a song that Ah-ku used to sing:

‘O, we scale the stars, and climb the moonshine,

Fight with dragons fierce and wild.

We ride the ocean’s waves,

We, the pipa girls, the weavers of a hero’s dreams.’

When Ah-ku was living in the big house in Juniper Garden, she was full of songs and stories of these pipa girls, stories that she trotted out whenever the tai-tai, the wives of the rich and famous, visited her. They used to sit by the swimming pool, sipping their iced jasmine tea, and feasting on the piping hot dim sum that Kan Jieh, her amah, had made.

Pipa girls used to sing in the teahouses and music halls along the Singapore River and in Chinatown. Thousands would come each night to gawk at these girls. They floated like butterflies in their silk qipao, gliding up the stairs. Just to see and listen to these girls sing was heaven to me when I was a child. Such sweet joy and sorrow in their songs I tell you! She embroidered and gushed as if she had never been one of these gilded butterflies. A load of rubbish, of course. My research as a musicologist has shown that pipa songstresses were nothing like what she described. Those pubescent girls were often locked up in pleasure houses and forced to learn the pipa and the art of pleasing men from a very young age. Nothing as romantic as Ah-ku likes to paint, now that she’s a respectable matron.

My phone rings. It’s my ex.

“Honey, two months before the deadline.”

“Rajeev, you’re a bloody slave driver!”

I always use his Indian name instead of the American version, Jeev, when he annoys me. But this morning Jeev is beyond annoying.

“It’s my job, hon,” he chuckles, knowing how I hate being called ‘hon’. “You voted me in as slave driver.”

“Damn.”

But I have to admit he’s doing a very good job, managing the egos of divas like me in the music department. With him in charge, everyone and everything in the department has worked in sync even in the hell and damnation build-up to our annual concert each spring. In our early years together, Jeev and I had fought like cats on heat. I didn’t think then that he could handle ego and temper with the grace and forbearance he shows these days in his grey beard age. Nor did I think he had the acuity to deal with the orchestra’s finance and contracts. Still, I’m glad that we’re no longer man and wife.

“You’ll have no time to yourself in Singapore.”

“Don’t you worry your sweet head. I’ve bought an open ticket. I can cut short my stay and take the next flight out if I have to. But I can’t just fly in for the old bird’s birthday and fly out the next day. A sixtieth birthday is a big thing for us Chinese. She was on to me again last night, talking like a house on fire for more than an hour till I had to lie that the battery in my phone had run out.”

“Hmmm, Chinese mothers.”

“Indian mothers too.”

We crack up like an old couple chortling over remembered jokes about Asian mothers. Such pals we are now, Jeev and I. We no longer harbour great expectations of each other. There’s no hidden agenda, no unfulfilled ambition or emotional obligation. Just music, simply the music we enjoy making. And I like it this way. I like the purity. Like a garment washed and beaten clean with a stick by the Indian laundryman, standing waist deep in the river. Durable and torn in places but still wearable, and should the garment wear out in time, it can be discarded without too much pain on either side. If only all relationships could be like this.

“D’you think you’ll be able to work in Singapore? You’ll be eating ten course meals every day. Swamped by hundreds of relatives and your old lady’s pals.”

“Jeev, I’ll shut the door and lock myself in if I have to. Or come home. I promise.”

Home. Home is here. In Berkeley, not Singapore. A decision I made at seventeen when Ah-ku threw me out. What is the sound of anger? The bloody clash of cymbals. With ten thousand trumpet blasts and a hundred drums booming. A whole symphony had threatened to explode in my head when I was writing Prelude to Fury for Orchestra & Pipa Solo. An experimental piece. Discordance and dissonance are the hallmarks of my compositions. Inspired by my intense phone conversations with Ah-ku screeching across the Pacific’s choppy grey waves when she found out that Jeev and I were living together.

- Who is he?

- A friend.

- What kind of friend?

- A friend! Boyfriend, okay?

- What’s his name?

- Why are you interrogating me?

- Have you something to hide?

- No! He’s Peter Rajeev Acharya.

- That doesn’t sound American. Is he American?

- Do you think everyone in America is European, white and blond? He’s American. And a professor! Happy now? A pro-fes-sor!

- Don’t shout! I can stop asking, you know! Stop phoning! Stop caring! America is such a big country. Millions of people. And whom do you choose? A black man!

- You’re a racist! He’s not black. His family is from India.

- I don’t care where they’re from. If you fail your exams, don’t come back!

- I won’t come back even if I pass!

I shut my eyes against the light. The fog outside my window has lifted and the rain has stopped. Berkeley looks fresh in the golden light.

“Hey, knock, knock! Are you still there?”

“Sorry. Just thinking what else to pack for the trip.”

“Your work-in-progress. And a reminder to text me when you reach Singapore. I want a daily update.”

“Stop being tiresome.”

“Honey, you love it when I’m tiresome.”