Figments Volume 13 - That's Hot
Singapore Polytechnic
500 Dover Road Singapore 139651
T:6772 1170 F: 6772 1955 E:lc@sp.edu.sg
Figments Volume 13 - That's Hot |
Department of Language and Communication Singapore Polytechnic 500 Dover Road Singapore 139651 T:6772 1170 F: 6772 1955 E:lc@sp.edu.sg |
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Polytechnic - Short Stories If only I can be an invisible being, among the throngs of people who walk by, grim with a purpose or just idling time away. But I am not, although I am armed. In this dreadfully predictable society, the one weapon that threatens to ruin the meticulous mechanism and dynamics of this community would be one that draws neither blood nor tears. It will destroy the soul, and no Kevlar of any form, shall save the soul of my victims. This very powerful weapon has no bullets, no physical body. However, the inevitable ‘flame’ that burns in all of us, is what the weapon, aptly called thermograph, uses as ammunition. After a few moments, my eyes settle on a young executive, walking briskly, keeping pace with life’s churning schedules of endless things-to-do. I take a straight aim, ensuring that my thermograph is steady. What I see through the monitor that serves as a tiny window to the soul, is a dying speck of flame, one that threatens to extinguish itself at any given moment. Perhaps, in a twist of dark humour, onlookers may point a finger and say, “Look, he is so busy chasing his dream of cars, condominiums and a career that he suffers burn-out – a young man, aged 35, a heart attack in the midst of chasing the Singapore dream. Leaving the chaos of the growing crowd and the screaming ambulance behind, my attention is diverted to a young, attractive and seemingly affluent woman. She has three children dressed in their best and a maid in tow. I ‘open fire’, and for a moment think that perhaps my weapon has had its day, for I see nothing at all. No flames of an energetic, loving mother living the ideal Singapore wife’s dream; not a single speck of light, nor a tiny hint of life. The thermograph has never had an error, never lies, and never fails to reveal the soul. Could this lady, young, beautiful and rich – with a seemingly perfect family and all else that a woman could possibly ask for, be so hopelessly empty, like a discarded broken shell, moving along society’s tightrope and controlled by what society dictates? I turn away from the woman who has died in spirit years back, and shall be buried in a few decades or so. Her death will be determined by whatever the country’s mortality rate is now. This is just one inconsequential fluke event. Anyway, now I spy a young girl no more than seven or eight approaching. I see through the eyes of my inanimate companion, a large bonfire that fills up her entire body till sparks are shooting off the mass of blinding flames. For a moment, I fear that the girl would combust. I wonder how it can be true, that a girl that young can be so full of pain and hatred and so livid with rage, for the fire burns a dark crimson red. Somehow, I feel the presence of a pained soul; all anger is suppressed because society says that the gods shall punish even young children who transgress social mores. The girl turns and stares at me, and our eyes lock. Once again, the thermograph reveals the truth and I see an immeasurable depth of sadness and loneliness in those eyes. Inexplicably, my heart reaches out for her, but before she senses any compassion, which is all that I can offer, she turns away, and is dragged into another world where darkness prevails and hope perishes. People burn with fires of so many different kinds. In the course of my travels, I discover that some individuals possess flames of burning passion, with the determination to achieve their ultimate goals. Many burn with equal or greater intensity, but with fires of rage and anger that are suppressed – in the vain hope of achieving normalcy on the outside and to eliminate the fear of rejection. A few have specks of light, little dancing flames that are on the verge of being extinguished in the fraction of an instant and disappearing into wisps of smoke. Others – a dull, black void of emptiness. All hopes for the ignition of life is absent, for no fire will survive in an environment so damp, dark and cold; a limbo of the dead soul that resides in a body that still pitifully roams the earth. Each new day becomes an obligation to live, serving family, society, and perhaps, a higher power, which seems to have forsaken human beings. Alive outside, dead inside. The thermograph never lies; it is accurate. It does not show us how to live, but tells us how we have been living. We may lie to others, and lie to ourselves, but the thermograph – it never lies. What will you see if you aim it at yourself? Viviana Chong Khyuk Yeeh The Yukta: a race discovered by the explorers of the twenty-first century, yet its ancestry dated back to the hundreds. Better known as the Race of Discoloured Eyes (speculated to be due to their diet of raw seal meat), they dwelled in the Arctic Circle, the land of the Final Frontier where hardly anyone survived, and were believed to be part of the recognised Inuit’s gene pool. However, the tough race of the ice people was slowly dying off, their numbers ebbing away due to chill-induced illnesses that preyed upon them mercilessly. They were the people of the cold. They never discovered heat. That was to change today; I was sure, as I finally spotted a gaping hole in the ground, and others like it littered sparsely around the area: the homes of the Yukta. The endless plateau of glaring white, with the occasional glacier and ice peak, were all that surrounded me. With the scenery of frost coupled with the freezing chill, I recalled the heat of the tropical island I had left behind, as sheer bliss. The sun went behind the cloud cover, hiding from the chill. Luckily, the arctic winds decided not to make their appearance today. I dropped the frost-bitten harness of my sled that carried my worldly goods, ending my hour’s trudge through the wastelands. The sound of metal falling onto the hard-packed ice was palpable, a sonorous din that rippled through the silence. Heads popped up through those holes. Human heads, covered with extremely thick fur hoods of tundra animals, which were coarsely sewn together. They were ogling – their discoloured eyes leered at me. They had reason to stare. I was a foreigner, an outsider like the few others, others who had discovered their existence in the white bleakness, but left them to their fate and did not return. It was time to make my introduction of the life saver to the Yukta. They had missed it for far too long. I grabbed the sled harness once more and lugged it closer to the entrances of the dwellings. The women started chattering – literally gnashing their jaws together and adding in licks and simple vocal sounds into their vernacular, something that I could not decipher. Some of the men gave me a frown – what was that foreign woman doing? I dropped the harness once more and dug through the haversack bound to the sled with my chilled fumbling hands. I retrieved some seal blubber and dried skin obtained from a scavenge, a broad flat slate I found amidst the tundra vegetation at the scientist village I left this morning, and two rough stones. All eyes were on me as I laid the slate on the floor, then the seal blubber and dried skin on top. I kneeled to the side, allowing the observers to have a good view of the mini pyramid. More chattering arose, a hint of suspicion in them. Now for the magic trick. A stone in each gloved hand, I struck the two pieces together with a quick flick of the wrists, an inch from the seal matter. Sparks flew, and the silence from the Yukta that followed indicated that I had their attention. The skin started to smoke, and a red glow appeared at the edge of the skin. Slowly, that red glow ate through the ebony hide, until it touched the gel-like blubber below it. A flame sprouted, and it grew swiftly, from a fingertip’s width to the size of my gloved hands. I threw a glance at the crowd. There was a new chattering of surprise. What was that orange and red… thing that sprouted from the seal matter? Why was it growing? Was it real? What did she, that foreign woman with light brown skin and black hair do? Soon, a little bonfire was raging on the seal fats, and I fed it with more natural fuel. The natives were staring, curious or apprehensive, I could not tell. The warmth of the fire rose to my face, and I failed to hold back a smile on my guarded face. I had been warned not to show much emotion, but the presence of heat was bliss. Slipping off my stained gloves, I allowed the flames to warm my hands directly. The Yukta continued staring, but they focused upon my hands now. The glow of vermillion slowly turned my pale skin rosy. In that squat before the flames, I kept still. I was hoping that curiosity would override fear and suspicion, something that I greatly wanted from the Yukta. If they fell back into their holes, all would be lost – my efforts to come to this barren spot in the vast expanse of ice to teach and save, even if a few, precious lives. Kok!” The cry came from my left, and I swivelled upon my feet to look. A girl was clambering out of her ice hole, much to a woman’s dismay, who reached out for her daughter. She was a toddler, barely three I believed. Her large eyes, a hue of grey and black, true to her kinsmen, were staring at the red flower. I was charmed by her button nose, pouting lips and plump face that was framed by the limp ebony hair peeking out from under her hood. The child stumbled towards the flame, her face slightly crinkled in curiosity. Her hands were outstretched towards the bonfire, all caution abandoned. This child did not know that an open flame could burn, I was sure. Hurriedly, I reached for her outstretched hands before she got too close. She gave a cry as my hands enveloped hers. But this cry was not of pain. The Yukta girl looked at me – her grey and black pupils at my hazel ones. Her small lips wreathed into a wide grin, and she gave a heart-warming chuckle. She felt the warmth of fire, through me. Mabel Leong Mei Poh An inch. This is all that I can muster with my energy, no matter how hard I try, no matter how determined I am. Just an inch. I look ahead to my destination and feel myself overwhelmed by bitter, painful despair. The blessed grasses and trees that are my shelter are still a distant meter away. I have to get to them, lest I get burned alive on this scorching concrete pavement. I have to, but I just can’t. Not now, not until my energy returns to me. But first let me fill you in about myself. If you think I’m one of your kind, I’ve to say you are wrong, for I am not human. I’m just a small, shelled creature, one that does not have bones, does everything slowly, and is so helpless that I lie at the bottom of every conceivable food chain there is. Frankly speaking, I have no idea what I’m truly called, but you and your kind call me a ‘snail’. Warm beads of sweat slide down the stems upon which my eyes are set, tickling them wickedly and all I can do is to close my eyes; nature has not given me the luxury of hands to scratch myself. In fact, nature has given me nothing much. With a terrible effort, I push myself forward, pulling my eyes into my stems and grinding my teeth in an effort to block out the blinding pain on my underside. The pavement is blistering hot, and every inch of it that I cover causes my underside to scrub painfully against it, and get burned even more. That, more than anything else, drains me of my energy, and with it, my will to reach the shady refuge of the trees and grasses. Why am I here, you may be wondering. Well, let me tell you first that it hasn’t been my desire whatsoever to rub my belly raw on this accursed pavement in the middle of who-knows-where. No, I am in this predicament because of Mother Nature which had decided long ago that only the fittest shall survive. It is something I don’t really understand. Still, since you have stayed with me all this while, I will tell you all that had happened. It all started just a few minutes ago. My family and I were having our lunch when all of a sudden we were attacked by an army of red ants. They surrounded us and sealed all our exits. I tried to fight them off, to get to my family, but I was too slow. And too weak. You see, Mother Nature neither gave me, unlike those ants, lightning-quick speed, nor tough hide. Nonetheless, I resisted as much as I could and suffered many bites. I thought about my family and then realized bitterly that if I couldn’t even help myself, how was I going to help anyone else? Soon, the foul creatures carried off the carcasses of my wife and children in front of my very eyes. It was all too much for me. I thought of just giving in to my struggle, and gave in I did. The cruel ants soon carried me off as well. Perhaps death wasn’t intended for me then, because an anteater chanced upon us. It started attacking and its swinging snout caught me, throwing me painfully onto this loathsome pavement. When it left, I felt the satisfaction of knowing that the foul ants were all dead, and eaten, and that my family had been avenged. With another titanic effort, I push myself forward as far as I can, but my refuge, to my dismay, is still half a meter away. The heat is beginning to kill me, slowly but steadily. I try to push forward again, but to no avail. I can do nothing else but wait for my energy to return. To distract myself, I look around, and I am not amused at how bright the things are around me. Oh, the brightness, it makes everything worse! Why, oh why does it have to be so hot? Why does it have to be so difficult? Why does everything in life have to be so cruel and unforgiving? And most of all, why do all these misfortunes happen to me? I look up at the sky, ignoring the wicked yellow disk that is the cause of my misery, and search for a bird that would come and carry me off to another place where at least, I wouldn’t have to suffer the terrible heat. I notice a sparrow flying overhead. Will it come and help me? Then, I was shocked at how delirious I have become. What am I thinking? If the sparrow were to get to me, the only place I would end up would be its stomach! Tears of sadness wash over me as it hits me how random one’s fortunes can be. I know that I wouldn’t be able to get out of my predicament, at least not by myself alone. I am too slow, too weak, too…helpless. Mechanically, I push forward, closing my eyes in pain. I can’t do it, I just can’t… When I open my eyes, I wonder if a miracle has happened. I am much closer to my refuge; only a few inches away in fact. Oh, the joy that fills me! Happiness explodes inside me, and I dare to hope once again. I push myself forward as hard as I can, ignoring the pain, ignoring the blistering heat, and everything else, focusing just on my goal. The distance is soon reduced from a few inches to a mere inch. But I have to stop again, for my energy has run out. I have to wait once more…damn my helplessness! Just when I am about to start again, a gigantic blue ball rolls to a stop in front of me, directly in my path. How ironic! Life couldn’t have been more cruel! I am so close, yet so far…Maybe I should just give up, like I did earlier with the ants. I should have realized then that if the ants didn’t kill me, the sun and its heat definitely would. Maybe I should just let it all go, and fall into the abyss that is death… But no, I can’t. Not when I am this close to my goal. Not after all the hard work I put in to come this far. I won’t! I have come too far to give up my hope now…My eyes flare open, and with another mind-numbing effort, I push myself around the blue ball. Then I stop again, and pant heavily. As I struggle, I feel my vision become hazy and I see flashing red spots. What is happening to me? I try to move, but nothing happens. My eyelids are becoming too heavy to lift up, so I withdraw my eyes into my stems, and I feel my head slowly touch the ground against my will… There are certain things in life that you simply can’t achieve, no matter what you do, how hard you try, or how much it means to you. It may sound cruel, but that’s the way some things are in life. Yet, it doesn’t mean you should just give up on living and breathing. Death will really be the end-all. Grunting with exertion, I will myself to move one more inch, just one more inch…. * * * * * Sally looks up at the darkening sky when she hears the loud thunderclap and smiles, happy that it is finally going to rain. It is such a hot day. From inside her house, her mother calls, “Sally! Get into the house, it’s going to rain. And please bring in the anteater in as well. We don’t want our precious baby to get wet and dirty.” “Yes, mommy,” Sally shouts back. She looks toward the pavement in front of her house, and spots her favourite blue ball. As she bends over to pick it up, she sees a shrivelled snail right beside it. She squats down and observes the poor creature, then picks it up and puts it gently among the grass blades. “Sally!” “Coming, mommy.” Prabhunath S/O Ramrup CONSOLATION PRIZE I arrived at Indira Gandhi International Airport after the long listless hours of my non-stop flight. Numerous people wearing touristy caps and shirts printed with slogans were crowding around the arrival hall. I paused, and let the distinct scent of jasmine and roses engulf me like paralysis. No doubt, I was getting the mystical embrace of India. “Are you okay?” Saffin asked, interrupting my thought at how the beggars would besiege me for handouts and merchants would try every trick to part me and my dollar. “Ya, I’m fine. I’m probably too hungry,” I replied restlessly as he broke into a wide smile. I first met Saffin three years ago when I was studying at the University of New South Wales. His family ran a farm in the heart of Avon Valley, Perth. The farm provided one of Western Australia’s finest bed and breakfast accommodations. His father was Australian and his mother was born and raised in India until the age of seventeen. Saffin always introduced the two of us as “best friends” to his family and friends. However, I must admit that at certain times I really felt attracted to him and I wondered if he ever felt the same. We quickly unpacked our luggage at Kaw’s apartment along Barakhamba Road. Kaw was Saffin’s cousin and had offered to put us up in his 1930s’ colonial-inspired apartment since he was always out of the country for business. We embarked on a bumpy rickshaw ride around Old Delhi. Shahjahanabad was surrounded by crumbling city walls and three surviving gates. It was very much an individual city – predominantly a labyrinth of tiny lanes crowded with rickshaws, and lined with 17th-century havelis (Indian mansions). We stopped at Chor Bizarre along Asaf Ali Road, which Saffin said was, a perfect place for lunch. Chor Bizarre literally means “thieves’ market”, and in it I discovered intentionally worn and mismatched chinaware and a 1927 Fiat Roadster that served as a buffet table. None of the chairs were the same and the walls were covered with photos of Elvis and Marilyn. Luckily, the kitsch stopped here. “What would you like to have?” Saffin asked. You decide, since you’re the host and the one who will be paying afterwards,” I chuckled and in return got a weird glance from the waiter. Saffin placed the order in a different tongue and rice was served thereafter on pieces of banana leaves. When the dishes arrived, Saffin briefly introduced the orders. There were Rogan Josh (curried lamb), Gushtaba (spicy meatballs in yogurt), Tandoori chicken (chicken marinated in herbs and baked in a clay oven) and palak patta chat (spinach leaves coated with flour and topped with tamarind chutney and blended yogurt). “Meat dishes are more common in North India,” he continued. There was a long pause, before he filled the awkward silence by enlightening me on one of the many customs in India, “You are to eat with your fingers but remember, only with your right hand.” While Saffin settled the bill at the cashier, I caught sight of some seeds in a clear glass bowl on the counter. “Chew on some of these, these are cumin seeds…” Before Saffin could finish his sentence, the cashier interrupted in poor English and I guessed that he was trying to say, “Good for digestion.” We stopped along the jam-packed Kinari Bazaar and I got to savour a fraction of the countless irresistible snacks on every street corner such as Rasgullas (cream cheese balls flavoured with rose water), Gulab Jamuns (flour, yoghurt and ground almonds) and Jalebi (pancakes in syrup). Despite the sensory explosion of taste, the spiciness of the curried lamb still left a tingling sensation on my taste buds. The day ended with an exotic belly dance show at Dublin. The club had the largest collection of single malts in Delhi, and with its Irish theme décor, fancied itself as Delhi’s most exclusive club. Next morning, I awoke to the aroma of Indian-style breakfast. As I approached the kitchen, I saw the cheese naan laid neatly on the table. I watched Saffin’s back as he prepared the rest of the dishes and took no notice that I was behind him. Questions started surfacing at the back of my mind. Where did he learn to cook? Who did he usually prepare meals for? After a late breakfast, we set off for Agra, 200 kilometers southeast of Delhi, which required four hours by train to reach. It was home to the finest examples of Mughal architecture in India, of which the Taj Mahal was simply the most renowned. Saffin said that if anyone managed to get to the Taj first, the person would hear what might aptly be described as “the sound of infinity” – the vibration created by air moving through the huge ventilated dome. As soon as the first jabbering visitor walked in, the noise would reverberate throughout the room, and the sacred silence would be lost until closing time again. We checked into Trident Hilton Agra by evening. During the wee hours, we left the hotel room hurriedly as if we were in cahoots to commit some crime. We planned to reach the Taj before dawn. The Taj was built by Shah Jahan as an eternal symbol of love for his wife whom he called Mumtaz Mahal. I looked into Saffin’s eyes under the disappearing moonlight and an extraordinary feeling entered the very core of my being. It was evidently neither the curried lamb nor the alluring belly dancers. Saffin gently leaned against me and I felt his warm breath on my cheeks. “Let’s fall in love,” he whispered. Time moved imperceptibly as the delicate touch of the sun immersed us in the warmth of love. Lee Bifen The loft apartment the Gordons call their home is dark. The sun has not yet risen but husband and wife are already up. In the gloom of predawn, they move quietly and briskly to the living room to avoid waking their six-year-old who is still asleep in his bedroom. Mr. Gordon picks up a baggage behind him. The weight of the suitcase does not agree with him. Deftly, he sets the suitcase on its side and unlocks it. He lifts out a couple of t-shirts and a thick woollen sweater from the top of the pile, which he flings over the headrest of the settee. He locks up his suitcase and heads for the door. He calls to his wife saying it is time to go. She brings him a cup of coffee and waits while he downs the tepid drink in a gulp. The two of them are sweating from the heat of the flurry. He gives her a peck on the cheek and leaves for his business trip. Mrs. Gordon is alone once again. Looking down on the empty cup still warm in her hands – a blunt reminder of her duties – she goes into the kitchen and rinses it under the cool running tap water. She replaces the cup in the dish drainer and dries her hands on her shorts. On leaving the kitchen, she sees the forlorn clothes on the settee, almost offended by them. Surely her reaction wasn’t an aversion to the choices she has made? Moving with the ease of a practised housewife, she flicks on the light switches, picks up the clothes and folds them before laying them in a drawer compartment at the bottom of the closet. Her day begins early today. She keeps to her routine. She removes the chicken pieces from the freezer and dumps them in the sink to thaw. Then she loads the dirty laundry into the washing machine which will end its run after thirty minutes. A bath and a quick read in the meantime. After which, she returns to the chicken to make porridge. While breakfast simmers in the pot, she gets her son out of bed and lets him watch cartoon. The day is just breaking and already half her work is done. She scoops out some porridge and while waiting for it to cool, unloads the damp laundry from the machine and puts it in the dryer. She then showers her son before feeding him his breakfast. She feels herself pulsate with the heat of the motions. It is now seven and the morning’s work is done. A break from labour does not suit her well. For without the chores, she is but herself. She sits on the settee where her son continues to watch cartoon and a sense of emptiness creeps up on her. She has absolutely no idea what the sounds from the TV she is hearing are. The images do not make sense to her, and her son’s detached companionship adds to her confusion. He calls to her. “It’s warm! Can you do something?” She opens the window and a gentle wind blows in. This should be enough. She turns to look at the boy, hoping for an indication of appreciation. But there he is, sprawled out on the chair in his self-importance just like his father. She feels a surge of pity for herself, at the latent estrangement from her family. She is but only the cup in which her husband pours the heat of his manhood into. And what was once an impassioned relationship they thought marriage would reinforce, has now cooled to a shadow of make-do. Stroking the swell of her pregnancy, it becomes apparent to her, and only now, that it is erroneous to have conceived her unborn child. It’s really for her own peace of mind that she got pregnant! After all, how does one love any more, if marriage strips one bare? She pulls herself up from her seat. Going into the kitchen, she puts together a ham sandwich which she packs into a Ziploc bag. This will be for her son’s lunch in school. Moving into the bedrooms, she tidies the beds and rearranges the furniture. She pauses for a moment, then goes into the bathroom and locks the door behind her. Seating herself on the cold edge of the bathtub with her feet in the tub, she takes off her clothes and turns the shower on. She brings the shower head close and the massaging pulsations of water scurry along her lower body. The cold water runs warmer with each caress of her skin. It careens down the rise and fall of her legs, then curls under the sole of her feet. She spends what seems like eternity in the bathroom, revelling in the sensations. Mummy! Her son calls from the other side of the door. “Ants got to my lunch; it is ruined!” She takes her time, cleaning the bath and drying herself off before emerging from the bathroom. She enters the living room and glances at her son who is still glued to the TV. Remembering his lunch, she heads for the kitchen and finds black ants crawling all over the sandwich. It is ruined, just like he said. She begins to cry with her hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs. Hearing his pattering feet move across the living room floor, she takes refuge behind the refrigerator door from which she takes out the filling for a new sandwich. Mrs. Gordon swaddles herself in the routines of a housewife: the humdrum of cleaning, the drudgery of caretaking, the conundrum of timekeeping because it keeps her warm in a cold marriage. Athalia Ho Meixi CONSOLATION PRIZE The blistering heat had no effect on the two dark-haired men arguing bitterly. They were too wrapped up in their own battle to notice the strange looks from passers-by. Indeed one of them had turned red with rage, his massive chest puffing in and out at a rapid speed. The other one was so skinny that it was disconcerting to hear such a loud voice bellowing out of his small throat. The Li brothers were famous for their public arguments. Right now, they were heard quarrelling about who had the right to their deceased father’s condominium in Tiong Bahru. “I have the right to live in it since I am the oldest!” screamed the taller of the two whose formidable appearance had helped make his security firm a success. “I was the one who had chosen that building with father. Besides, I paid 50% of the value. So it should be mine!” replied Li Wong, the younger brother, a businessman. “Yeah, well, I am willing to pay you. Stop being stubborn and find yourself another place to live in.” With that, Li Song entered the OCBC bank to settle some business. Wong was tired of reasoning with his brother and he decided to return home. Like his brother, he wanted to achieve his 5 Cs first. He already achieved four of them – the latest J.A.G., his bank balance was an asset to be envious of, his credit was good and he had the membership to one of the hottest country clubs. All he needed was the damned condominium but brother dear wanted it too. Of course he could easily purchase another but he didn’t want to give in. He was determined to beat Song to acquiring the 5 Cs and which must include their father’s condominium. With that thought in mind, he folded his skinny frame into the gleaming car and drove home. Meanwhile, back at home… “You know I am tired of Wong’s and Song’s squabbling. And it is getting embarrassing to step out into the neighbourhood.” Commented a petite woman, Mei Li, wife of Wong and a successful gynaecologist. “Yes, I agree! The other day, the lady living above us threatened us. Said that she would call the police if they didn’t keep it down.” Replied Si Ying, wife of Song, who was a famous archaeologist and was often away on digs. Right now, she was on her vacation but she wasn’t enjoying it much. Both grew pensive, deep in thought. Just then, Wong came in slamming the front door and walked to the bar without looking at them. He prepared a scotch and stood there sullenly. The wives were surprised. Normally, Wong was always in a teasing mood. Today, he had barely spoken to them. “Dear-” began Mei Li but he cut her off. He wasn’t in the mood to talk and went into his room. “This quarrel of theirs is getting worse,” commented Si Ying. “It’s time we did something.” “But what can we possibly do?” Mei Li was still looking at the door behind from which her husband had just disappeared. “They will never listen to us.” Si Ying agreed but her mind was busy concocting a plan. “I have an idea.” She whispered it in Mei Li’s ear. Both of them smiled, their eyes gleaming. They couldn’t wait for Song to return home. It was nightfall when the front door opened. Song walked in and was surprised to see his wife and Mei Li waiting for him. “Oh I am so glad you are back, Song. We have just made a decision!” both of them said in a syrupy voice. He looked at them warily. “What’s that?” “It is time you and Wong stop throwing tantrums and behaving childishly,” replied Si Ying. “Ch…childish, tantrums, Wha-” he blustered. “There is no need to get upset.” Si Ying continued. She pulled him into the elegant living room and made him sit down. “You just sit here while Mei Li calls for Wong.” Both brothers were seated facing each other. And in between them, there were two bowls filled with small red chillies. They looked at them and at their wife, clearly confused. “What’s this?” Wong was the first to break the silence. “Chillies!” Mei Li replied. “I know they are chillies. I mean why are they here?” Wong asked again, clearly exasperated. “Why, this is to solve your argument. That’s why.” This time it was Si Ying who answered his question. “I remain unenlightened.” Song’s frown increased. “Well, you see we are tired of hearing you argue about the same thing everyday. So we have decided that if you can’t solve the problem yourself, we will do it for you. And these chillies will decide who gets the condo,” explained Si Ying. “On one of my digs, I discovered that the old Cuban tribes used chillies to decide the leader. The one who finished the most chillies deserved the power, or in this case, the condo!” she continued. “That’s rubbish. I don’t want to do this. Eating chilli, it will be a wonder if we don’t end up in the hospital.” said Wong. “Yes, it is not a good idea,” agreed Song. “But it is. Both of you feel that it is your right to get the condo, right?” asked Mei Li. The men nodded. “So…” She waved her hands at the bowls of chillies. “…this will decide who deserves it. It will test your resolve and solve a major problem unless…..” she raised an eyebrow. “Unless you are afraid?” “I will do it!” Song said. He decided that it was a good way to get the condo and to rib his brother for being scared. Nothing could prevent Wong from backing out now. He didn’t want to be branded a coward in front of them so he agreed. Both brothers started eating the chillies at the same time. The first bite had them sweating. It was hot. By the time they got to the third chilli, their tongue had begun to ache from the pain and they could see nothing through their tears. It was blisteringly hot. They stopped eating. Each of them lay back in their seat sticking their tongues out. They were fanning it with their hands hoping to cool it down but it was pointless. Their wives, finally taking pity on them, brought them honeyed water to soothe their tongue. And maybe it will sweeten your disposition as well. Finish up the chillies. We want to know who gets the condo.” “He can take it. I don’t want it. I will buy myself another one.” Song was quick to reply. He was no longer interested in the condo because he knew that his wife meant business and the next few days weren’t going to be comfortable for him. Today was chillies, tomorrow it would be something else. “No I don’t want it. You are right, Song. You are the oldest so you should have it.” Wong disagreed. No way was he accepting it. “No, you deserve it.” The wives looked at each other. It was useless to stop them now. Their incessant squabbling had started. The women retired to their own rooms defeated. Sarita Devi D/O Ram Singasan Privacy Statement | Disclaimer |
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