The Shadow of Her Past

The sun is peeking over the horizon. Its hazy streams of light penetrate through the windows along the cloistered corridor.  Tendrils of shadows stretch themselves up the walls until their heads touch the arched ceiling. They form an intriguing archway illusion which gradually diminishes towards a dark, hollow room in the farthest end of the age-worn walkway.

From the other end of the corridor, Tsin is inching in the direction of the room.  The remnant cold of last night’s heavy rain sends a shiver through her thin, frail body. She instinctively pulls her collar tighter around her sagged neck. The streaming sunlight can hardly mitigate the chill. She would have made nothing of it had she been in her teens. How fast time has elapsed. No one can stay young and fit forever. She sighs and draws a deep breath. The damp, fetid smell of the peeling walls invades her nostrils, making her wonder when the building was abandoned. Could it be in mid 1940s or late 1950s? She shakes her head in uncertainty. The corridor was once filled with fresh, resinous scent of pine trees from the woods outside. The walls seemed to be breathing in their lush blue paint and the laughter of children vibrated through the air. It was a place where goodwill thrived, happiness equally shared and grief forgotten. Though staying in the orphanage for a mere two years, the fond memories she has will remain etched in the depths of her heart forever.

“The place is so desolate and devoid of life,” a tiny voice speaks in her mind.  “Why did you come here?”

“It is where I spent the early part of my life,” Tsin answers.

“It is so much different than before,” grunts the voice. “It symbolizes death and defunctness.”

“No,” Tsin refutes the voice, “It is alive with good memories.”

“You are wrong,” insists the voice. “Nobody cares for it anymore.  Stop dwelling on the past.”

“The past gives me the spirit to move on with life,” says Tsin.  “I am always thankful to God for sending me to this orphanage.”

“Who are your parents?” asks the voice.

“I have a very vague memory of them,” Tsin replies, her mind drifting back to the distant past.

Tsin’s parents died of tuberculosis in close succession when she was six. Orphaned at such a tender age, she always felt afraid, grieved, confused and insecure.  Like an unwanted rag doll, she had been handed from one relation to another for two years before being sent to the orphanage at the age of eight. The moment she entered the building, her heart was full of misgiving towards the caretakers, Reverend Baker and his wife. They looked so much different from the locals with their taller stature, their paler skin, their non-dark brown eyes and their higher noses. Would they treat her as bad as her relatives or even worse? Her fear was allayed when Mrs. Baker put her little hands gently in hers and spoke to her in foreigner-accented Chinese, “Don’t worry, Tsin, you are at home now.” The woman’s voice was so calm and soothing. Her bluish eyes sparkled with motherly love and compassion. Reverend Baker was standing beside the gentle lady, exuding the same kindness with his smile. She used to think that she would never feel it again in her life. Overcome by a sudden surge of grief, she threw herself into Mrs. Baker’s arms and cried. In her young mind, she knew she had found a safe sanctuary. The couple was kind to her. Whenever she woke up crying from a nightmare, they would be sitting by her bedside to comfort her. Though the orphanage was not a rich missionary organization, there was always enough food and clothing for every child. She felt much more secure emotionally.

Tsin is now standing outside the dark room.  

“My goodness,” exclaims the voice.  “I hate the look of it.”

“But it is always special to me.” Tsin whispers softly.

“Why is it special?” The voice asks.

“Reverend Baker and his wife taught us how to read, write, draw, sing and play games in it,” says Tsin, reminiscing with a smile.

“What else did they do?”

“They introduced us to Jesus Christ, the Son of God ,” answers Tsin.

“The reverend couple wanted to brainwash all of you with their religious teaching,” says the voice, louder and louder.

“That is not true,” Tsin counters.

“All foreigners came to China with an evil intent,” avers the voice.  “They wanted the locals to lose their own identity.”

“Not all of them are like that,” Tsin says calmly.  “Reverend Baker and his wife are compassionate towards the poor and the needy.”

“In what way?”

“They gave us hope,” Tsin explains.  “In those days orphans were treated as trash.  The reverend couple convinced us that we were the same as others in God’s eyes.”

“Unfortunately,” sneers the voice.  “The glory of the room is over. “

“It remains the same in my mind,” says Tsin.

“That is not realistic,” the voice says mockingly.

A smile crosses Tsin’s lips as she recalls how the room looked like in the past . If she is not wrong, its windows were draped with white lace curtains. Children’s drawings and strips of gospel quotations were pasted on the walls, giving the room a warm, colourful look. There was a book shelf against the back wall. It was a treasure trove of knowledge, containing many story books, bibles and encyclopedias. A bronze cross was placed loftily above the blackboard which spanned across the front wall. It seemed to bless every person and item in the room with its lustrous metallic glow. Facing the blackboard were three rows of neatly-arranged wooden desks and chairs. Tsin liked to take the front seat in the middle row.

“Tsin,” complained Mei Fung, a ten year old girl who was Tsin’s best friend in the orphanage.  “Why do you always dominate the front middle desk?”

“I like it,” replied Tsin, a year younger than Mei Fung.  “I am able to hear the stories told by Reverend Baker and his wife more clearly.”

“I have always loved listening to their stories,” said Mei Fung.

“They are so fun,” said Tsin, “yet full of God’s love.”

“How do you find their Chinese?” asked Mei Fung, giggling.  “I find their English-accented Chinese quite amusing at times.”

“I do find it funny,” agreed Tsin, “but the way they tell stories is captivating.  They use a lot of pictures and gestures.”

“I love them,” said Mei Fung.  “They are like friends.”

“No,” corrected Tsin.  “They are our parents.”

Tsin gazes into the room. She can see films of tangled cobwebs hanging thickly from the ceiling. They glint off the vague light that steals in through the door-less entrance. In the pale dimness, she can make out the outlines of some scattered, overturned desks and chairs on the floor.  She sighs and walks into the room. The strong smell of dust almost chokes her. While moving inside, she has to keep brushing the tenuous threads of cobwebs off her body. The darkness makes her uneasy. She decides to open the windows to let the light in. She feels her way along the left wall, trying to find the location of the windows. She left the orphanage at the age of ten. Her youngest uncle from Kuching found out that she was in the orphanage and decided to adopt her. He had been close to her family before moving to Sarawak. Tsin was touched by her uncle’s sincerity and agreed to go to Kuching with him.  Her tears fell like rain on the day she bade farewell to everyone in the orphanage.

“Reverend Baker, I am reluctant to leave you and Auntie.” Tsin sobbed.

“Don’t cry,” said Mrs Baker. “You’ve finally reunited with your uncle.”

“Reverend Baker,” said Tsin’s uncle, extending his hand. “Thank you for taking care of Tsin so well.”

“It’s our responsibility,” said Reverend Baker, shaking the hand of Tsin’s uncle. “We treat her like our child.”

“I will treat her like mine too,” said Tsin’s uncle.

“Mei Fung,” Mr. Baker called out. “Give Tsin the new bible.”

“Yes, Mr Baker.” Mei Fung put a glossy-covered bible into Tsin’s hands.

“It’s a gift of parting,” said Reverend Baker.

“Thanks, Mr and Mrs Baker.” Tsin put the bible close to her heart.

“Read the word of God every day,” said Reverend Baker.  “It gives you peace of mind.”

“I will.” Tsin promised.

“Pray wherever you are,” said Mrs Baker. “God will be with you.”

“I will do what you say.  I love all of you.” Tsin hugged Reverend Baker, then Mrs Baker and Mei Fung.  Many children in the orphanage shed tears.

 Before Tsin left for the harbor with her uncle, Reverend Baker conducted a service to bless her.  When she left the orphanage in a horse cart, she cast a final glance at the building and said, “I will come back here when I grow up, I will”.  After twenty-five days of sailing, she reached Kuching and began a new life. Her uncle owned a small vegetable farm in the British colony. His wife was a small, soft-spoken lady who could not conceive. Her presence was able to fill the childless void in their life. When she was twelve, Japan invaded Sarawak and life was hard under their occupation. However, her family was able to pull through the difficult period. Five years after the Japanese surrendered, she met Nam, the man of her destiny and got married. He was a humble teacher who taught in a Chinese primary school. They were blessed with three boys and one daughter. Though content with life, she always recalled her time in the orphanage with fondness. She missed Reverend Baker and Mrs. Baker. She always told her children how good the couple had been to her.

                Tsin has reached one of the windows.  She turns the lever handles with both hands and opens the wooden shutters. Dust flies everywhere and a shaft of light floods in. She squints against the morning brilliance and lets the incoming, swishing wind brush against her cheeks. The air reeks of noxious chemical fumes. The stretch of woods beside the orphanage was leveled for the construction of roads and factories many years ago. Nature has always succumbed to this prevailing trend of modernization. The shady woods were the favourite haunt of Tsin and Mei Fung. They enjoyed ambling through the tapestry of trees and the tangle of ferns and grass in hot afternoons, admiring the scenery and picking flowers without a care in the world. It never occurred to them that the woods would suffer such a fate. The thought of this brings tears to her eyes. She feels like she has lost a dear friend. How many people will actually mourn the demise of the woods like her? She dries her tears and proceeds to open the other windows. Instantly, the room becomes alive with light. Her eyes glide across the room, absorbing the sight that unfolds before her. The walls, once laden with children’s drawings and bible quotations, are totally bare. The book shelf against the back wall is gone too. There are only a few chairs left on the floor. Like what she has previously seen in the dark, they are either upended, tipped on their sides or lay in fragments. Her eyes now settle on the front wall. She is quite surprised to see the blackboard remain intact in its place. Similarly, the bronze cross still hangs above the blackboard. It has turned black with age, giving off a faint patina.

Tsin is making her way to the centre of the room with slow, measured steps. She wants to find the spot where her seat was once situated.  When she is sure of where it is, she kneels down on the dust-layered floor. It causes sharp pain to her rheumatic knees but she does not care. She gazes up at the cross, eyes turning misty again.

“The reverend couple must have left China during the Second World War,” says the voice.

“My heart tells me that they remained in China,” says Tsin.

“That is only a wishful thinking,” retorts the voice.

“They are the good servants of God,” Tsin says.  “They won’t leave their flock behind.”

“Let’s assume that you are right,” sneers the voice. “What happened to them when China was declared a republic in 1949?”

Tsin does not know how to answer.

“A lot of foreign missionaries left China,” says the voice, triumphantly.  “Those who stayed behind were persecuted.”

Tsin sighs and shakes her head.

“It’s apparent that God couldn’t save them.  Long live the republic!” The voice roars with laughter.

“No matter what happened,” says Tsin, with firmness.  “They were victors of life.  The seeds they planted in us are growing robustly.”

“But………” replies the voice, but falls short of words.

“They gave me the dignity to live,” Tsin goes on, “and prepared me for a better life.”

“You are hopelessly positive.”

“That is what I am made of,” says Tsin, proudly. “No force can crush God’s love.  It spreads infectiously among us like ripples. The legacy of love lives on forever.”

“Unbelievable….” The voice tapers off into silence.

Tsin’s uncle died in his sleep when she was thirty-four. After four years, his wife joined him. She took their death very hard but was able to get over her grief through prayers. Time lapped and receded, all her children grew up and finished their university education. They became successful professionals and got married one after another, having children of their own. She and her retired husband enjoy their status as grandparents.

Tsin is now seventy-six. She considers herself very lucky for being able to set foot on the soil of Chung-san, her hometown again, after sixty-four years. Some of her friends could not live that long to return to their birthplaces in China. She reached the town with her husband and two of her children two days ago. She was filled with relief when her children found out that the orphanage is still standing from the locals. They came to the derelict building this early morning. She was overwhelmed by strong emotions. The moment they came to the cloistered corridor, she insisted on going into the classroom on her own. She wanted to have a personal moment with it.  She had missed it too much.

“Mama, are you okay?”

A soft female voice cuts through the stillness of the air. It interrupts her flashback. She looks over her shoulder and sees Yong Shi, her forty-nine year-old daughter standing behind her.  Her seventy-eight year-old husband, Nam and her fifty-three year-old eldest son, Yong Chin, are smiling at her at the doorway. Her other children cannot come to Chung-San because they are busy with their work in Sarawak. The sight of them makes her feel calm.

“I’m alright,” replies Tsin.

“We will ask more locals about the whereabouts of Reverend Baker and his wife,” says Nam, as he looks lovingly at his wife.

“Mama, I am sure we can get some reliable information about them,” reassures Yong Chin.

“That’s very nice of you,” says Tsin, smiling. “It’s okay even if you can’t find anything. The past is too blur and distant for us to grasp.”

Yes, the past is blur and distant. But love is omnipresent and everlasting. Reverend Baker and his wife will always hold a special place in her heart.

Tsin asks her husband and children to kneel down beside her. She leads them in saying a prayer of thanksgiving to God. Love binds their hearts together. It transcends time and boundaries.