A chilling yet provocative true story by one contributor called Mrs BH Lim.
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Step by step we half-crawled and half-climbed up the steps of the gloomy cave temple. The reflected light from the flickering oil lamps cast long shadows on the steep and narrow curving steps hewn out of solid limestone rocks leading to the crest of the hill.
As we emerged into the dazzling sunlight, we came to a small, well kept temple at the top of the limestone hill. Behind the main temple was a pool where water-lilies grew, toads croaked and colorful carp fish swam lazily under the hot tropical sun. We caught our breath beneath the hardy stunted "nine o'clock tree" - so named after its inexplicable ability to emanate the most pleasant fragrance after 9 o'clock in the night. From where Elaine and I were perched, we had a panoramic view of the Kinta plains stretching as far as the eye could see.
For what seemed like an eternity, there was only the silence of the dumb between the two of us, broken only by the soft hiss of breathing. Elaine was my cousin, and I had known her since we were in kindergarten together. I knew she wanted to share something very close to her heart as I could see her transfixed in deep thought and her earlobes twitching nervously in the reflected sunlight.
Finally, she spoke: "When mother passed away four years ago, I felt the deep pain of losing her and saw the anguish on father's face. He could not sleep in the room he had shared with her for 41 years and would sit on his deck chair every night until he fell asleep from exhaustion.
"We thought, with time, he would recover. However, things got from bad to worse. The family business started to flounder because hypermarkets were mushrooming and it greatly affected our wholesale trade," she said.
Then, their youngest sister, a lecturer in a local college, suffered a nervous breakdown after becoming involved with a deviant born-again sect. The next crisis was when her elder brother developed cancer of the colon.
This was followed by a bizarre happening in the house. Handprints were found strangely embedded in the incense urn sitting on the alter. One day, Elaine's uncle came rushing to the house looking for her father. He told them that the ancestral tomb had cracked and that the back portion of the tomb had slipped down and spilled over to the adjoining tomb.
This spate of ill luck precipitated a response from their eldest aunt. She was convinced that they were no mere coincidences and that unless they got down to the root of the problem, more misfortune would dog the family. She persuaded Elaine's father to follow her to a small town near Kampar to consult a medium.
This was no ordinary medium, but one who practiced the ancient forgotten art of "Char Kang Sua" which translated literally from Hokkien, means to search one's streams and hills. To be precise, it delves into one's origins so as to determine a person's past, present and future - to search for his heritage and his destiny.
Elaine had driven her father and aunt through the winding hills before arriving at the small one horse town which had seen better times during the heyday of the tin-mining era. Now all that remained was a community of elderly folk and a very famous home-made wanton mee shop where lorry drivers would stop for their afternoon and evening snack. The most important business in the area was commercial frog rearing.
They arrived at the temple late on a Saturday afternoon and there was a crowd of approximately 20 people ahead of them. It was almost an hour and a half before their turn arrived for consultation. The medium was garbed in what looked like a long Chinese gowns used in Teochew operas to depict a courtier from the Ming dynasty era. Elaine's father softly stated his Chinese date of birth and time, as well as his age and the animal year he was born in.
Before he could finish giving his address, the medium in his deep-throated voice said:
"Eight flowers on a hill . . . six flowers bloomed . . . and two did not. Now these two are requesting for a place in the family hierarchy. If they are not given their proper place in the family, as is their destiny, then there can be no harmony and peace for all the family.
"They were denied their rightful place on earth, and though they bear you no grudge, they seek their rightful place within the family."
Elaine continued: "Father's face turned a deathly shade of pale and I could hear his breathing change to a shallow wheeze. The mole on his face quivered in the semi-darkness of the incense-filled temple hall and I knew that the medium had touched a very raw wound. I could hear father speaking . . . as the sound poured forth like the disemboweled sound from the depths of the earth: "What should I do?"
The medium swung his fly whisk like he was swinging a sword and then reached out for his pit or Chinese ink brush. He dabbed it into the inkpot and started to write vigorously on his two feet wide pre-printed yellow paper.
The medium directed: "Take this hoo or talismanic paper and then on the 9th day of the 9th moon, go to the ancestral tombs and beseech your ancestors to help you invite the two lost flowers that never had a chance to bloom. Tell them that these are the other two members of your family and that they are children number six and number seven. After making the offerings and saying prayers for their benefit, return to your home and in front of the altar, introduce them to your family and the household deity. The following day, arrange for their chosen names to be engraved on the family tombstone."
Elaine went on: "Those were the instructions of the medium. I could not understand what he had said or what he was trying to do but my father nodded his graying head, which was fast thinning on the top. Tears rolled down in rivulets along the wrinkles on his cheeks."
It was a very strained drive home back to Ipoh, where Elaine and her father lived. On the way, they dropped off their aunt and parted ways. As they drove through the streets of the leafy tree-lined town, Elaine's father said: "Only your mother and I know about this until now. You have always thought that you come from a family of six children, but there was a time after your second brother (the fifth child in the family) when your mother conceived again. It was just after the May 13th incident (racial riots) . . . there was so much uncertainty . . . we were struggling to survive and your mother and I felt that we could not afford to have another child.
"In her desperation, she sought advice from the Malay lady who used to urut(massage) her after every birth. I can still remember her face although her name escapes me. She arranged for an appointment with a well-known Pak Haji in Kampong Benggali in Selama. I hired a car for a day and drove her there.
"It was a rundown shophouse and we walked up the rickety stairs where a Malay man in his 60s was waiting. I never knew what happened as I went downstairs and walked across to the coffeshop to wait for what seemed an eternity. After two hours, your mother walked down the same rickety staircase, her hair disheveled and her face pale.
"We never spoke about what happened that day. It was only after she had to go back to that place a second time 15 months later that she told me the Pak Haji gave her a bitter, black herbal tonic to drink. After about an hour, he came back and massaged her stomach. The agonising ministrations went on and on and just when the pain got absolutely unbearable, she passed out a small bloody-looking bundle."
"Dad never finished his story after that but just maintained a stony silence," finished Elaine.
The sun was fast dropping behind the limestone outcropping as we wound our way down the steep limestone steps into the cave temple. As we passed the smiling figure of Vairocana, the Buddha of Light, I wondered to myself what secrets are hidden in our past, present and future. I can almost visualize in my mind the image of my uncle standing in front of the medium, searching for his origins or "Char Kang Sua" and hear the medium's voice saying out loud:
"Eight flowers on a hill . . . six flowers bloomed . . . and two did not."
I now understand why during the recent Cheng Beng festival, Elaine had set out two extra places at the table.
It is with the consent of my cousin, whose name and hometown have been changed, that I share this story with you.
By BH Lim
9th October, 2000
Step by step we half-crawled and half-climbed up the steps of the gloomy cave temple. The reflected light from the flickering oil lamps cast long shadows on the steep and narrow curving steps hewn out of solid limestone rocks leading to the crest of the hill.
As we emerged into the dazzling sunlight, we came to a small, well kept temple at the top of the limestone hill. Behind the main temple was a pool where water-lilies grew, toads croaked and colorful carp fish swam lazily under the hot tropical sun. We caught our breath beneath the hardy stunted "nine o'clock tree" - so named after its inexplicable ability to emanate the most pleasant fragrance after 9 o'clock in the night. From where Elaine and I were perched, we had a panoramic view of the Kinta plains stretching as far as the eye could see.
For what seemed like an eternity, there was only the silence of the dumb between the two of us, broken only by the soft hiss of breathing. Elaine was my cousin, and I had known her since we were in kindergarten together. I knew she wanted to share something very close to her heart as I could see her transfixed in deep thought and her earlobes twitching nervously in the reflected sunlight.
Finally, she spoke: "When mother passed away four years ago, I felt the deep pain of losing her and saw the anguish on father's face. He could not sleep in the room he had shared with her for 41 years and would sit on his deck chair every night until he fell asleep from exhaustion.
"We thought, with time, he would recover. However, things got from bad to worse. The family business started to flounder because hypermarkets were mushrooming and it greatly affected our wholesale trade," she said.
Then, their youngest sister, a lecturer in a local college, suffered a nervous breakdown after becoming involved with a deviant born-again sect. The next crisis was when her elder brother developed cancer of the colon.
This was followed by a bizarre happening in the house. Handprints were found strangely embedded in the incense urn sitting on the alter. One day, Elaine's uncle came rushing to the house looking for her father. He told them that the ancestral tomb had cracked and that the back portion of the tomb had slipped down and spilled over to the adjoining tomb.
This spate of ill luck precipitated a response from their eldest aunt. She was convinced that they were no mere coincidences and that unless they got down to the root of the problem, more misfortune would dog the family. She persuaded Elaine's father to follow her to a small town near Kampar to consult a medium.
This was no ordinary medium, but one who practiced the ancient forgotten art of "Char Kang Sua" which translated literally from Hokkien, means to search one's streams and hills. To be precise, it delves into one's origins so as to determine a person's past, present and future - to search for his heritage and his destiny.
Elaine had driven her father and aunt through the winding hills before arriving at the small one horse town which had seen better times during the heyday of the tin-mining era. Now all that remained was a community of elderly folk and a very famous home-made wanton mee shop where lorry drivers would stop for their afternoon and evening snack. The most important business in the area was commercial frog rearing.
They arrived at the temple late on a Saturday afternoon and there was a crowd of approximately 20 people ahead of them. It was almost an hour and a half before their turn arrived for consultation. The medium was garbed in what looked like a long Chinese gowns used in Teochew operas to depict a courtier from the Ming dynasty era. Elaine's father softly stated his Chinese date of birth and time, as well as his age and the animal year he was born in.
Before he could finish giving his address, the medium in his deep-throated voice said:
"Eight flowers on a hill . . . six flowers bloomed . . . and two did not. Now these two are requesting for a place in the family hierarchy. If they are not given their proper place in the family, as is their destiny, then there can be no harmony and peace for all the family.
"They were denied their rightful place on earth, and though they bear you no grudge, they seek their rightful place within the family."
Elaine continued: "Father's face turned a deathly shade of pale and I could hear his breathing change to a shallow wheeze. The mole on his face quivered in the semi-darkness of the incense-filled temple hall and I knew that the medium had touched a very raw wound. I could hear father speaking . . . as the sound poured forth like the disemboweled sound from the depths of the earth: "What should I do?"
The medium swung his fly whisk like he was swinging a sword and then reached out for his pit or Chinese ink brush. He dabbed it into the inkpot and started to write vigorously on his two feet wide pre-printed yellow paper.
The medium directed: "Take this hoo or talismanic paper and then on the 9th day of the 9th moon, go to the ancestral tombs and beseech your ancestors to help you invite the two lost flowers that never had a chance to bloom. Tell them that these are the other two members of your family and that they are children number six and number seven. After making the offerings and saying prayers for their benefit, return to your home and in front of the altar, introduce them to your family and the household deity. The following day, arrange for their chosen names to be engraved on the family tombstone."
Elaine went on: "Those were the instructions of the medium. I could not understand what he had said or what he was trying to do but my father nodded his graying head, which was fast thinning on the top. Tears rolled down in rivulets along the wrinkles on his cheeks."
It was a very strained drive home back to Ipoh, where Elaine and her father lived. On the way, they dropped off their aunt and parted ways. As they drove through the streets of the leafy tree-lined town, Elaine's father said: "Only your mother and I know about this until now. You have always thought that you come from a family of six children, but there was a time after your second brother (the fifth child in the family) when your mother conceived again. It was just after the May 13th incident (racial riots) . . . there was so much uncertainty . . . we were struggling to survive and your mother and I felt that we could not afford to have another child.
"In her desperation, she sought advice from the Malay lady who used to urut(massage) her after every birth. I can still remember her face although her name escapes me. She arranged for an appointment with a well-known Pak Haji in Kampong Benggali in Selama. I hired a car for a day and drove her there.
"It was a rundown shophouse and we walked up the rickety stairs where a Malay man in his 60s was waiting. I never knew what happened as I went downstairs and walked across to the coffeshop to wait for what seemed an eternity. After two hours, your mother walked down the same rickety staircase, her hair disheveled and her face pale.
"We never spoke about what happened that day. It was only after she had to go back to that place a second time 15 months later that she told me the Pak Haji gave her a bitter, black herbal tonic to drink. After about an hour, he came back and massaged her stomach. The agonising ministrations went on and on and just when the pain got absolutely unbearable, she passed out a small bloody-looking bundle."
"Dad never finished his story after that but just maintained a stony silence," finished Elaine.
The sun was fast dropping behind the limestone outcropping as we wound our way down the steep limestone steps into the cave temple. As we passed the smiling figure of Vairocana, the Buddha of Light, I wondered to myself what secrets are hidden in our past, present and future. I can almost visualize in my mind the image of my uncle standing in front of the medium, searching for his origins or "Char Kang Sua" and hear the medium's voice saying out loud:
"Eight flowers on a hill . . . six flowers bloomed . . . and two did not."
I now understand why during the recent Cheng Beng festival, Elaine had set out two extra places at the table.
It is with the consent of my cousin, whose name and hometown have been changed, that I share this story with you.
By BH Lim
9th October, 2000
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