From an old diary, a funeral that celebrates the memory of a much-loved grand old lady
Sunday
GRANNY was taken critically ill and warded at Toa Payoh Hospital. Her large, extended family held a council at Fourth Uncle's farmhouse in Koh Sek Lim Road, Changi where Granny had been living the past few years. The kerosene pressure lamp was lit and hung over the rafter, casting a pale yellow glow over my uncles and my father as they discussed Granny's impending death and funeral arrangement.
Granny was now 74 years old and most people felt she could not survive this bout of illness. It was enough that she had lived through three generations. Sixth Uncle, the youngest child and the poorest in the group, wanted an elaborate funeral and a good coffin that would cost, say $1,000.
"Where are you going to get that much money?" asked my Second Aunt (Granny's second daughter), who together with her husband, was doing a roaring business selling Hakka yong tau foo. A decade ago, Granny taught both of them the secret of making delicious yong tong foo (the popular fishball and fish paste snacks), in the process, making them wealthy. Granny herself, however, remained poor. A cheap coffin would do, said my aunt's husband, since according to him, Granny would presumably be cremated according to Buddhist rites.
This instantly started a heated exchange between him and Sixth Uncle. In the end, Fourth Uncle (Granny's favourite son who was the only one among his siblings educated in both Chinese and English, and considered the best talker of the family) settled the argument with his clever reasoning: He was all for a good coffin, he said. In fact, he wanted only the best for their mother who had struggled and given so much to bring them up. But times were bad and not everyone was well-off. Granny surely would not mind if they gave her a reasonably-priced coffin -- not cheap, but reasonably-priced, he stressed -- as she must be aware that though their sentiments were high, their funds were low.
With this, Fourth Uncle had everyone nodding to an inexpensive coffin with a clear conscience.
Next was the question of cremation vs. burial. Again, Fourth Uncle reasoned that it was time-consuming to bury Granny since sooner or later the government would acquire the cemetery land for development and the bones would have to be taken out. Moreover, it was right and proper in Buddhism to cremate a person. Buddha himself was cremated; so uncle couldn't see why Granny should be an exception.
Then the discussion moved on to more mundane things like who was to be in charge of refreshment and joss-stick and spirit money supplies, the number of guests expected, placing notices in the local newspapers, the period for the wake, the temple to conduct mass, and contributions for the expenses.
It was midnight when the talknig ended. Thus, before Granny could pass away, all details for her funeral were anticipated and settled, to everyone's satisfaction.
Monday
Granny died at noon in the hospital. Sixth Uncle informed everyone he had, on his own initiative, ordered an $800 coffin. "Isn't that a bit too much?" asked my father tactfully, recalling what was discussed before.
"No," said my uncle. "I went to the undertaker and what cheap coffins he showed me were between $400 and $600. But the quality of the wood is disgraceful. This coffin is just about perfect, and I'm sure you will all agree with me that since this is the last chance to show our gratitude to mother, let's give her something good."
My father (Granny's son-in-law) looked doubtfully at him and quoted some lines from a an old poem:
They placed costly medicine by my bedBut my heart only yearnsBeyond the clouds for my old homePassing on, I leave this red dust never to return.Granny was a remarkable person. She was born in the Straits Settlements, then under British rule, in 1901. It was also the last days of the Manchu Dynasty of China. She had lived through revolutions, wars, the Japanese Occupation, and political and social upheavals -- from the last Chinese Emperor to the day man stepped on the moon.
At 30, Granny was left a widow and singlehanded brought up a near-dozen children. She worked as a seamstress, she sold chicken eggs house-to-house, she was engaged in temple charity, and by the time I was born in 1951, she was a respectable landlady in Chinatown.
She must have been attractive in her girlhood, for when I was a child, I remembered her still handsome features and straight poise.
My family lived for a decade at Granny's rambling house while my father was working in Indonesia. She could make cakes, meat dumplings, rice wine and almost every mouth-watering dish in the Chinese cuisine. In the last two years of her life when she was harassed by constant illness, her mental faculties were amazingly clear and alert. We felt as if she was a visitor from some better world who was even then making ready her departure.
Tuesday
In the morning Granny's body was claimed from the hospital mortuary. A vast green canvas awning was built over the courtyard of the farmhouse. The open coffin was placed in the middle of the yard. A tall wooden bench in front of the coffin served as an altar; with a milk can filled with rice grain used as an incense holder.
The abbess from the Kuanyin Bodhisattva temple in Geylang was already there, chanting the opening mass. During the reading of the Holy Scripture, the family, all 40 members, gathered round the coffin to make their obeisance.
When mass was said, I gazed wordlessly at Granny's still form. It was the last time I was seeing those beloved, familiar features, and even now, reading this diary piece four years after the funeral, I can still recall every facial line, so peaceful and resigned. A mist of sadness stole into my heart.
Meanwhile, wreaths, scrolls and banners (blankets with words proclaiming the dead person's virtues in large characters) from relatives, friends and clan asociations, started arriving, and have to be prominently put up. This was important because when the guests come, they wanted to see where and how prominent their funeral paraphernalia were displayed.
The coffin was covered at 5 o'clock in the evening. The womenfolk broke into loud wailing as the last nail was hammered in. I was surprised to see my stout aunts, who, after duly shedding copious tears, dried their faces and started preparing dinner efficiently for the large number of visitors expected at nightfall.
As darkness settled over the countryside, I joined a few of my cousins around the coffin, burning the spirit paper money or Hell's Banknotes, that would, hopefully, finance Granny's passage through the Underworld. We, all young working adults, fell to talking about the way Granny had once loved and treated us -- the movies she took us along to watch, the religious festivals she celebrated with piles of cakes, buns and other yummy dishes (offered first to the household gods, then for the kids) and the trips we made with her to parks and fairs. The night wore on wih the chattering of insects all around. A cold wind sprang up and we huddled closer to the fire feeling Granny's presence very much with us.
Life is a dream,
they tell
Those who dream of the banquet, wake up to lamentation and sorrow. Those who dream of lamentation and sorrow wake to join the hunt. While they dream, they do not know that they are dreaming. Some will even interpret the very dream they are dreaming; and only when they awake do they know it was a dream. By and by comes the great awakening, and then we find out that this life is really a great dream.
Fools think they are awake now, and flatter themselves they know -- this one is a prince and that one is a shepherd. What narrowness of mind! Confucius and you are both dreams; and I who say you are dreams -- I am but a dream myself.
-- Chuang Chou,
On Levelling All Things, translated by Lin Yutang, The Wisdom of China, p93 (1956) .
Chuang Chou was the philosopher who said he dreamt he was a butterfly, and when he awoke, wasn't sure if he were a butterfly dreaming it was Chuang Chou.
Getting Granny ready for home
