If you have been with me from the start of my blogging journey, I think it has become abundantly clear just how much my grandmother Winifred Pereira meant to me. (In particular refer: I am Indian - Part 2 and Peace One Day.) I have also mentioned her ‘quirky anthology of friends’. During the week of my birthday celebrations, I thought a lot about mama and her friends, and I think it's time I introduced you to two of them.Mama’s best friend was a Bibik or Nonya. Meaning lady or madam, in Singapore it refers to a Peranakan woman. Peranakans are part Chinese, part Malay and are descendants of the very early Chinese migrants who intermarried with the local people of Singapore and Malaysia. They are also referred to as Straits-born Chinese, named after the Straits Settlements which in turn referred to the collection of territories owned by the British East Indian Trading Company.
This Bibik’s name was Melanie, but would you believe for all of my childhood that I had been acquainted with her, I never knew that. Neither did any of my cousins nor did our mothers or their friends. The reason for this was her name had always been mispronounced. It was only when she had passed away and the notice of her funeral had appeared in the paper, that my mother found out. All our lives before then, we knew the good woman as … Merlarni. For the purpose of keeping her authentic in this blog entry, I will spell her name as it has always been pronounced, for that is how we knew and loved her.
Aunty Merlarni was an infinitely tiny woman, I am sure she was under 5 feet in height – most Nonyas are petite. She was married to the caretaker of the convent school close to my mama’s house in Karikal Lane. Merlarni and her husband, ‘Uncle Caretaker’ whose real name I could never remember, lived in a house behind the school. She conversed mainly in Malay with a generous sprinkling of English and some token Chinese expressions. She was always immaculately dressed in a Nonya kebaya – which is the traditional dress of the Peranakan and Malay women in Singapore.
A Nonya kebaya blouse is at least mid-thigh to knee in length. It is typically made from sheer lacey material and held together with ornate brooches called kerosang. A kerosang set consists of the ibu (mother) and two anaks (children) sometimes attached to each other by a chain. The blouse is worn over a colourful sarong – often an elaborate batik print - that is stylishly pleated to perfection. It is a stunningly sensual looking piece of clothing as the blouse is never lined and the women wear beautiful bras or corsets underneath. Although difficult to imagine that an older lady wearing something so sheer would be pleasing to the eye, trust me when I say, the Nonyas of Katong (the quiant Peranakan district where my grandma lived) always wore their kebayas with an air of cultured refinement.
Merlani was no different. She combed her hair into a very neat kondek (bun) at the nape of her neck and held it together with just one large diamond studded gold hair-pin. On her feet, colourful hand-beaded slippers caught the sunlight as she took her graceful hurried steps. I used to watch her coming down the sandy lane lined with beautiful Flame of the Forrest and Angsana trees that towered above her tiny familiar frame. Like my grandmother, she was always in a hurry and never left her home without her payong – an Asian umbrella made out of oil-treated cotton – and a pretty basket that looked like it was made from starched lace. Closer inspection revealed it was really hard plastic simulated to look like the real thing. Merlarni had two or three in pastel shades.
Her eyes would light up when she saw me, her lips turning into an infectious smile. Her face was always powdered with bedak wangi, a white face powder popular with Asian women then. This whiteness only heightened the Lantern Red shade of lipstick both she and mama were so fond of. She always smelled of Two Girls Brand Florida Water Cologne and in spite of the long sleeves of her lace-work blouse and her constant hurrying, I cannot say that I ever remember her perspiring.
Merlarni was one for latak. How would I even being to describe latak to my friends who were not raised in Singapore? It’s a kind of exclamation. You know how sometimes when we are surprised or shocked by something we might say “Oh my God!” or “For heaven’s sakes!” Latak is similar, only extended and using non-religious vernacular. For example, if she or my grandmother dropped something – they would exclaim something like “Oh-puchuk-mak-jatoh-pulot-hitam!” It gets lost in translation but means something like “Oh-fragrant-root-mother-fell-down-black-rice-pudding!” It is nonsensical in any language.
They were almost as bad as each other but I think Merlarni would have to take the prize as Queen of Latak. She was extremely devout for she had grown up in a convent. When attending Mass at the Church of the Holy Family, she regularly would sit with my grandmother and her family. My mum liked sitting at the end of the pew on the side of the main aisle and so whenever Merlarni would genuflect next to the pew, mum would stay on the end and move her knees to one side so Merlarni could move into the pew. On one occasion when the time for communion arrived, the organist played a quiet heavenly hymn as everyone remaining in reflective prayer, made their way forward to receive the body and blood of Christ. Merlarni, of course, also got up, rosary in hand and began to make her way out of the pew. Somehow she managed to unhook mum’s handbag, which was hanging off the side of the pew in front of her. It landed with an echoing thud onto the old grey and blue mosaic floor, Merlarni in turn not to be outdone, let out a loud latak that reverberated throughout the church “Oh-pantat-pantat-mak-pantat-jatoh-pisang.” Loosely translated meaning “Oh-arse-arse-mother’s-arse-the-banana-fell-down.”
Aunty Merlarni was an infinitely tiny woman, I am sure she was under 5 feet in height – most Nonyas are petite. She was married to the caretaker of the convent school close to my mama’s house in Karikal Lane. Merlarni and her husband, ‘Uncle Caretaker’ whose real name I could never remember, lived in a house behind the school. She conversed mainly in Malay with a generous sprinkling of English and some token Chinese expressions. She was always immaculately dressed in a Nonya kebaya – which is the traditional dress of the Peranakan and Malay women in Singapore.
A Nonya kebaya blouse is at least mid-thigh to knee in length. It is typically made from sheer lacey material and held together with ornate brooches called kerosang. A kerosang set consists of the ibu (mother) and two anaks (children) sometimes attached to each other by a chain. The blouse is worn over a colourful sarong – often an elaborate batik print - that is stylishly pleated to perfection. It is a stunningly sensual looking piece of clothing as the blouse is never lined and the women wear beautiful bras or corsets underneath. Although difficult to imagine that an older lady wearing something so sheer would be pleasing to the eye, trust me when I say, the Nonyas of Katong (the quiant Peranakan district where my grandma lived) always wore their kebayas with an air of cultured refinement.
Merlani was no different. She combed her hair into a very neat kondek (bun) at the nape of her neck and held it together with just one large diamond studded gold hair-pin. On her feet, colourful hand-beaded slippers caught the sunlight as she took her graceful hurried steps. I used to watch her coming down the sandy lane lined with beautiful Flame of the Forrest and Angsana trees that towered above her tiny familiar frame. Like my grandmother, she was always in a hurry and never left her home without her payong – an Asian umbrella made out of oil-treated cotton – and a pretty basket that looked like it was made from starched lace. Closer inspection revealed it was really hard plastic simulated to look like the real thing. Merlarni had two or three in pastel shades.
Her eyes would light up when she saw me, her lips turning into an infectious smile. Her face was always powdered with bedak wangi, a white face powder popular with Asian women then. This whiteness only heightened the Lantern Red shade of lipstick both she and mama were so fond of. She always smelled of Two Girls Brand Florida Water Cologne and in spite of the long sleeves of her lace-work blouse and her constant hurrying, I cannot say that I ever remember her perspiring.Merlarni was one for latak. How would I even being to describe latak to my friends who were not raised in Singapore? It’s a kind of exclamation. You know how sometimes when we are surprised or shocked by something we might say “Oh my God!” or “For heaven’s sakes!” Latak is similar, only extended and using non-religious vernacular. For example, if she or my grandmother dropped something – they would exclaim something like “Oh-puchuk-mak-jatoh-pulot-hitam!” It gets lost in translation but means something like “Oh-fragrant-root-mother-fell-down-black-rice-pudding!” It is nonsensical in any language.
They were almost as bad as each other but I think Merlarni would have to take the prize as Queen of Latak. She was extremely devout for she had grown up in a convent. When attending Mass at the Church of the Holy Family, she regularly would sit with my grandmother and her family. My mum liked sitting at the end of the pew on the side of the main aisle and so whenever Merlarni would genuflect next to the pew, mum would stay on the end and move her knees to one side so Merlarni could move into the pew. On one occasion when the time for communion arrived, the organist played a quiet heavenly hymn as everyone remaining in reflective prayer, made their way forward to receive the body and blood of Christ. Merlarni, of course, also got up, rosary in hand and began to make her way out of the pew. Somehow she managed to unhook mum’s handbag, which was hanging off the side of the pew in front of her. It landed with an echoing thud onto the old grey and blue mosaic floor, Merlarni in turn not to be outdone, let out a loud latak that reverberated throughout the church “Oh-pantat-pantat-mak-pantat-jatoh-pisang.” Loosely translated meaning “Oh-arse-arse-mother’s-arse-the-banana-fell-down.” Just about everyone stopped in their tracks and turned in horror to look at Merlani – who very calmly simply picked up mum’s handbag and hung it back onto the pew. She joined her hands together in prayer, bowed her head, kissed the crucifix of her rosary and blissfully unaware of the scandalised looks she was receiving, proceeded down the aisle to communion. Mum who had been a couple of feet in front of her was very embarrassed and remained rooted to the spot. Merlarni walked past saying very nonchalantly and almost just as loudly “Come Valerie, tunguh apa?” Meaning "Come Valerie, what are you waiting for?” Priceless!
Mama made friends with everyone – age, colour, sex, standing in the community was all irrelevant to her. She who at sixteen married my grandfather and came to live in Singapore, leaving Malacca and all her family behind had very little education herself. She took delight in people, so it is not in any way surprising she was also friends with a little five year old girl. I am not entirely sure how it all started between Mama and the little girl, but one day while Mama was drying my wet hair after my bath – she started telling me about her. I had not gone to kindergarten that day for I was sick with flu symptoms and Mama always used to say when I was sick "Presta oh Jude, go have a bath and wash your hair." As she divided my hair into sections and then to curl each one into locks, she began a story that introduced me to the girl I would grow up with and come to love like a sister.
Mama had been fascinated and amused. For a few weeks now nearly every afternoon she had been sitting outside in the shade on her white wrought-iron swing, watching a bechak (trishaw) go by with a little girl sitting inside. Fascinated, because the girl looked so much like me, and amused because the child would be preening into a mirror or combing her hair. To mama this was one of the most enchanting regular occurrences that she had begun to look forward to. One day mama called out “Hello furiadah!!!” Furiadah is the Portuguese-patoi term for vain pot! The little girl turned around and looked at mama in total surprise as mama just cackled in delight. This soon became a regular banter between the two – as the little girl in turn would call my grandmother “Furiadah!!!” as the becak drove past. Her name was Debra.
I remember staring at her in disbelief the first time I saw her, for mama was right, she did look
like me – we could have been sisters, same features and same hair. Mama continued to see her every school day – sometimes from the swing, sometimes from the front door where she used to sit and sift her many spices, or from the tall windows upstairs, as she combed her own long dark hair. I attended a different kindergarten, so I rarely saw Debra again for many months. The following year we found ourselves in the same class at the convent in Opera Estate where all the lower primary girls went. Even though at the beginning we played in different circles – Debra was always there. Sometimes it was like looking into a mirror, and maybe that is why I cannot pin-point when our actual friendship truly began.Debs as we lovingly call her, still lives in Singapore, and when I asked her in an email just recently if she could remember how we began, I found she had exactly the same memories. My mama was her friend long before me. And she remembers seeing me for the first time in mama’s garden, the two of us staring at each other. That was just under forty years ago. And then after that, I too was just always there. I am sure when she reads this blog entry, she will agree with me when I say that as we got older, we became more aware of each other and of how we were destined to be connected - what we have can never be separated by distance or time. Teachers used to often ask if we were sisters even though we had different surnames – I think some people probably even wondered if we just had different fathers – for it was truly uncanny how many things about us were similar. When we were in high school, we even discovered the baffling sameness of our baby photos. Identical dresses, in near identical poses and with identical hairstyles even though our mothers never knew each other.
My mama, whom I loved completely has been gone for 34 years, along with Merlarni and most of the older people from so long ago that she had treasured as her friends; yet my memories of her remain infinitely clear. And they always include how through her ability to find friendship in the most unlikely fashion, Debs became family.
Debs … my mama loved you.
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