Read Dying to Be Me Online

Authors: Anita Moorjani

Dying to Be Me (4 page)

Such gender inequality is rife in my culture. As a young child, however, I didn’t question these values and took for granted that this is the way things were supposed to be. My first uncomfortable experience with this disparity came at the tender age of six when I overheard a conversation between another lady and my mother.

“Were you disappointed that your second child was a girl when she was born?” this woman asked in our Indian dialect.

I felt a sense of anxiety rise within me as I awaited the response.

“No, of course not. I love my daughter!” my mother replied, much to my relief.

“But girls are a problem, especially when they grow up,” the woman said. “With girls, you have to make sure they don’t get spoiled, otherwise they won’t get a good husband. And the amount of the dowry that’s required to get a daughter married only gets higher with each passing year!”

“You can’t predict the future. Every child, whether girl or boy, brings with them their own fate,” I recall my mother replying wisely.

“Well, I’m happy that I have two sons!” the woman said proudly. Even my young mind was able to detect the sense of achievement she felt as she made that statement.

Later, when my mother and I were alone together, I asked, “Mama, is it true that girls are a problem?”

“No, of course not,
Beta
darling,” she responded. (
Beta
is an affectionate term for “my child” in our dialect.)

My mother pulled me close and gave me a hug, and at that moment, I recall thinking,
I never want to be a problem to my parents just because I’m a girl. I don’t want them to ever wish I were born a boy.

O
UR FIRST HOME IN
H
ONG
K
ONG WAS
an apartment in a nine-story building in Happy Valley overlooking the horse-racing track. I used to spend hours looking out the window at the jockeys in their colorful silks, training the horses for the weekend races.

The tramline ran along the main road outside our apartment block, and the trams would noisily interrupt my daydreams as they rumbled past below me while I gazed out of our seventh-floor apartment window.

Most mornings I’d roll myself out of bed to the familiar rich fragrance of sandalwood and rose-scented incense. I’ve always loved the aroma, as it offered me a sense of peace and serenity. I’d usually find my mother, dressed in one of her myriad colored
salwaar kameez
(traditional Indian dress), made mostly of fine Indian silks or French chiffons, about to enter our home shrine.

Every morning, my parents meditated, prayed, and chanted mantras at our shrine in front of the deities Krishna, Laxmi, Shiva, Hanuman, and Ganesha. They did this to raise their consciousness for inner strength as they faced another day. My parents followed the scriptures contained within the Hindu Vedas, as well as the teachings of Guru Nanak and his holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib.

I often sat in front of the shrine and watched my parents intently as they lit the incense and waved it in a circular motion in front of the little statues and pictures of the various gods and goddesses, while chanting their
puja
(Hindu prayer), and I would emulate them.

Later on, I’d watch our Chinese nanny, Ah Fong, attend to her various chores as she chattered to me in Cantonese. Her tiny body, dressed in the traditional black-and-white
samfoo
(traditional Chinese dress), made quick little movements as she scurried through the house. I was very attached to Ah Fong. She’d been with us since I was two years old, and I couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t part of our family.

O
N A TYPICAL WEEKDAY,
I
WOULDN’T SEE
my parents until early evening. Ah Fong would pick me up from school, and after going home for lunch, she often took me to the market to purchase fresh food and produce for our household. We traveled by tram, and I used to delight in going with her on those outings.

We hopped onto the tram as it stopped on the street right outside my apartment building. It was such an adventure for me. I gazed out the window as the tram made its way through the crowded, narrow streets of Hong Kong; through Happy Valley, Causeway Bay, and Wan Chai; and then we got off at the market, Ah Fong gripping my little hand tightly. I delighted in taking in all the sights, smells, and sounds of my surroundings. My parents never took me to such exciting places! They only traveled by car and shopped in department stores, which I thought was dull in comparison to this kaleidoscope of color and sensation.

The markets sold everything, from fresh produce and household goods to trinkets and baubles. The vendors called out their wares, and the stalls were in no special order. Vegetable stalls were interspersed with stalls selling shoes, flowers, pots and pans, cheap plastic toys, colorful arrays of fresh fruit, costume jewelry, balloons, fresh fish, meat, socks and stockings, colorful napkins and towels, tablecloths, and so on, most of them with the wares spilling out onto the street. I was mesmerized for hours.

“Ah Fong, Ah Fong! Look at that! What’s that man doing with the snake?” I cried out excitedly in my fluent Cantonese.

“That’s a snake vendor. He’s going to tie up that snake, and that family is going to take it home to make snake soup,” Ah Fong replied.

I continued to watch in wide-eyed wonder as the snake writhed to fight for its freedom in the skillful hands of its handler—but to no avail. I felt compassion for the poor creature as it was expertly tied up with bamboo strips and caged in wire meshing.

Nevertheless, I absolutely loved going to the markets with Ah Fong. These little outings were a field day for my strong sense of adventure!

E
VEN AFTER MANY YEARS OF LIVING WITH US,
Ah Fong still lowered her eyes and averted her gaze each time my mother or father entered the room. Being an inquisitive child, I flooded her with questions about everything, including her behavior. In my mind, I was always trying to reconcile the cultural differences between Ah Fong and my parents.

“How come you do that?” my six-year-old self wanted to know.

“How come I do what?” Ah Fong replied

“How come you look down when my parents come near you?” I asked in Cantonese.

“To show respect,” she explained

“How come?”

“Your parents are my employers. I want to show I respect them and realize that they are my superiors.”

“Are they your superiors?” I was amazed by this piece of information.

“Yes, because they give me work.”

“Am
I
your superior?” I asked

Ah Fong laughed good-naturedly, as she was used to my persistently inquiring mind.

“No, you didn’t give me work. I’m here to look after you.”

“Oh, okay,” I called back as I left to play with my new doll.

I also loved playing with Ah Fong’s daughter, Ah Moh Yee. From the time I was about five years old, Ah Moh Yee came to stay with her mother at our home on the weekends. She was only a year older than I, and because I spoke fluent Cantonese, we became friends. I really enjoyed her company. We played together with my toys, and we also went to the nearby park together. My parents were very happy for me to have a live-in playmate every weekend.

Sunday being Ah Fong’s day off, she took Ah Mo Yee out for lunch and then dropped her daughter back at her own parents’ home, where she lived during the week. (Although I never questioned it at the time, looking back, I realize that Ah Fong was a single mother, bringing up Ah Mo Yee with the help of her family.) Ah Fong took me with her if I wasn’t going out with my parents, and I really cherished those outings.

As usual, we traveled everywhere by tram, beginning by going to a Chinese food stall for a meal. These places, called
dai pai dong
in Cantonese, were outdoors on the street, so we sat on little wooden stools, slurping bowls of hot noodles and dumplings in soup while traffic drove past. After the meal, Ah Fong took us to the home where Ah Mo Yee lived with her grandparents, a modest and sparsely furnished low-rise Chinese-style walk-up loft apartment. I made my way around the dark, stone interior of the apartment, my curious mind wanting to explore every corner, as Ah Fong sipped tea with her parents. They drank tea out of little cups with colorful enamel designs of the animals from the Chinese zodiac, such as dragons or tigers, while I had a glass tumbler filled with juice or sweet tea.

I never got bored of going there, and even if I tired of the conversation, I enjoyed looking out of the large arched windows at the street below, where the dried-seafood vendors laid out fresh scallops and fish onto straw matting to dry out on the side of the road in the strong afternoon sun.

T
HUS, MY CHILDHOOD WAS A MIXTURE
of East and West. Since Hong Kong was a British colony mainly inhabited by Chinese, Christmas and Easter were celebrated with the same enthusiasm as the Hungry Ghost and Mid-Autumn Moon Festivals.

Ah Fong and Ah Mo Yee taught me about Chinese traditions and beliefs, as well as the meaning behind all the festivals, and I loved the fact that Ah Mo Yee stayed with us during all her holidays. For example, the Hungry Ghost Festival was held on the 14th night of the seventh month of the lunar calendar. During that day, families prayed for the pains of their deceased relatives and gave offerings to their ancestors who had died.

Anoop and I watched Ah Fong and Ah Mo Yee, as well as Ah Chun, the cook, make offerings to their deceased relatives by burning effigies of fine goods made of paper. They lit a fire inside a large urn at the back of our home, at the bottom of the stairwell behind the kitchen, and fed the paper to the fire. The effigies resembled cars, houses, and even fake money. It was anticipated that their ancestors were receiving these luxuries in the other realm.

“Ah Fong, does your grandpa really receive a house in heaven if you burn that paper house?” I asked curiously.

“Yes, Anita. My grandparents expect me to continue to remember them and support them, even in the afterlife. We all have to respect our ancestors,” she told me.

Ah Fong, Ah Chun, and Ah Mo Yee then sat down to a meal at their table at the back of the kitchen, which Ah Chun had spent a fair part of the day preparing, with an extra place set at the table for the deceased relatives to join in the festivities. There were offerings of food in front of the extra place set for the departed. I often joined them for this meal, and showed genuine concern about whether the ancestors were getting enough food put in front of them!

One of my favorite times of the year was the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival, which was when I got to choose a brilliantly colorful paper lantern from the myriad on display, hanging from the ceilings of many local stores. The lanterns came in all shapes and sizes, including the animals of the Chinese zodiac. I always loved the rabbit shape best! Ah Fong took both Ah Mo Yee and me to choose our lanterns together from the shops behind the markets.

In some ways, this festival is very similar to the American holiday Thanksgiving, and it’s the celebration of the large harvest moon. The ceremony includes eating and distributing moon cakes, of which there are numerous varieties. We then lit the candles inside the beautiful and colorful paper lanterns and took them outside. Together with the other children in our neighborhood, Ah Mo Yee and I hung our lanterns outside our homes, and on trees and fences. We were allowed to stay up later than usual on this night and play by the light of the lanterns and the moon, which was at its fullest and brightest for the year.

M
Y FAMILY ALSO CELEBRATED ALL THE
I
NDIAN FESTIVALS,
including Diwali (the Hindu Festival of Lights), with great enthusiasm. We always wore new clothes for the occasion, and it was a very exciting time for me. Even at that young age, I absolutely loved the idea of shopping for a new outfit prior to the festivities! My mother usually took my brother and me to Lane Crawford, at that time the largest department store in the central business district of Hong Kong. We ran up and down the children’s department, me looking excitedly at the dresses and pinafores, my brother looking at the shirts and trousers. My mother would help me pick out a dress, and for this time of year, it was usually the more colorful the better, to go with the festive occasion.

On the auspicious evening, my whole family got all dressed up in our new clothes, my mother usually in a brand-new, colorful sari, wearing all her jewelry; my father in a traditional
kurta patloon
(Indian shirt and pants); my brother in trousers and a shirt; and me in a new dress.

After getting all dressed up, we went to the Hindu temple in Happy Valley to mingle with others from our Indian community and sing
bhajans
, which are Hindu devotional songs.

Our voices, interspersed with chimes and bells, echoed through the high, domed ceiling of the temple and drifted out into the evening air. I remember actually feeling the sounds of the temple bells reverberate through my very being, touching a deep part of my soul. On every Hindu festival day, the temple courtyard came alive with color, music, dance, and the smells of spicy Indian vegetarian food weaving their way amidst the sweet fragrance of incense. How I loved the atmosphere!

“Mama, I’m going to the front, to get the
mahraj
[Indian priest] to put vermillion on my forehead!” I cried out to my mother excitedly in Sindhi, as my small body wove its way through the colorful crowd.

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