I crouch by my grandmother’s wheelchair and tell her I like to hear stories about the past. "Ngo zung yi tang yi cin ge gu zai," I say in Cantonese. The private room at Ah Ma’s favourite restaurant Marco Polo in Malaysia is buzzing. I recognise my great-uncle, great-aunt and Mum’s cousins but don’t remember how they relate to one another. It’s been years since our last family reunion.
Ah Ma jerks her chin in my aunt’s direction and deflects my attempt at conversation. "Mun dai yi" - ask your aunt - she says. When I protest that I’d rather hear them from her, she cradles my cheeks in her hands and asks when I will be back. The gesture takes me by surprise.
I’m saving my annual leave for a writing residency. But the truth is, I’d rather holiday in Europe. Malaysia is not the adventure my colleagues think it is. Even if I had the words, I can’t say this to Ah Ma. I haven’t seen her for four years and prior to that, another six. I answer "I’m not sure" and change the topic.
“There are so many things I’d like to ask you,” I say. “But sometimes, I don’t know how.” Her hands touch my face again. I’ve never hugged or kissed my grandparents.
A decade ago, on another trip to Malaysia, I had peered intently at Ah Ma, trying to commit her to memory. At the time, I didn’t know when — or if — I’d see her again. I had no intention of returning soon. I didn’t want to be there; I wanted to be home to receive my VCE results along with everyone else. On the day we arrived, I had cried at the airport, spitting at Mum, “If you weren’t from here, I’d never come to this country. It’s hot, it smells and it’s dirty.”
The writer as a baby with her grandmother. Source: Supplied
Growing up, I thought maybe if my brother and I weren’t Australian, if we didn’t speak Cantonese with an accent she would love us more.
Yet when it finally came time to go, I wanted to carry a small part of my grandmother with me. "Nei tai mat ye?" - What are you looking at? - she had snapped at my staring. Hurt, I slipped the shards away as proof that she didn’t care.
Growing up, I thought maybe if my brother and I weren’t Australian, if we didn’t speak Cantonese with an accent, she would love us more. I envied my classmates. I couldn’t just pop around to Nan’s every weekend. Even as I’ve learnt not to compare, I wonder what could have been. I’d heard Ah Ma ignored Mum for weeks when she learnt she was marrying a man in Australia. Mum chose not to mention Dad for close to a year; only her father and siblings knew.
I interviewed Mum last year for a piece on growing up in a prewar . When I asked if my grandparents struggled with the family business, she let slip, “Maybe the stress of running the business made my mother a demanding, unreasonable woman.”
For years, I had dismissed my grandmother as an angry old woman who dotes on her eldest grandchild, not me. She dyes her hair black and refuses the title Poh Poh as it sounds “too old”. I yearned for Ah Ma’s acceptance even as I reduced her to a one-dimensional character. Years ago, a family friend commented on my handwriting. She said it resembled the strong, deliberate strokes of Ah Ma’s Chinese characters, reflecting our stubbornness.
Even now, I pounce on tidbits, scrabbling to prove I am indeed Ah Ma’s granddaughter.
Mum once mentioned my grandparents enjoyed music. I ask Ah Ma a few days after lunch at Marco Polo if she listened to English songs and if she sang or danced. “Maa mi gong nei yi cin zung yi tang goh, tang record…” I hide my shock on learning my grandmother went dancing when she was younger. I wonder if she ever lost herself on the dancefloor. Did the music sweep away her worries, the way it does mine?
Returning from Malaysia this year I realised I strained to belong to Ah Ma the way my cousins did. I resented their ease, the way in which my grandmother constantly spoke or asked about her beloved grandson. I was tempted to give up. Why bother if you would never be her favourite?
But on the day before we left, Ah Ma tells my brother and me something unexpected, "Mou gom loi faan lei aa" - Don’t take so long to return, okay? - I put my hand on hers and make a silent promise.
Shu-Ling Chua is a writer of memoir and criticism, who focuses on culture, femininity and growing up. Follow her on Twitter .
This article was edited by Candice Chung, and is part of a series by SBS Life supporting the work of emerging young Asian-Australian writers. Want to be involved? Get in touch with Candice on Twitter
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