Fifty Ringgit

In a few days, all the schools in Miri would be closed for Chinese New Year.  From my point of view, 1985 was the same as any previous year.  As usual, God would deny my family the gaiety of this festival.  It always occurred to me that my classmates were more privileged to enjoy the prosperity of this occasion.  Whenever they raved about the types of gifts they would be getting from their parents, I would remain morosely quiet. Deep in my heart I knew that my papa could never afford to provide me with such luxuries.  Year in and year out we celebrated Chinese New Year in a frugal manner.

I was ashamed of my papa.  The more my classmates bragged about what their fathers would do for them during the Chinese New Year, the more I hated mine. He had an unusual way of giving out red packets.  On the first day of every Chinese New Year, Papa would give my siblings and I one ringgit worth of red packets, a measly amount compared to that received by our classmates.  We never had a chance to spend the money because on the third day of the celebration, he would collect them back from us, rendering our joy short-lived.

                My papa sold steamed buns to support our family.  Although our buns were delicious and reasonably cheap, the profit we made was meager and inconsistent due to tough competition in the market.  Every month, much of our earnings was spent on our car repairs. The rickety Honda meant a lot to us.  If it broke down, Papa would be unable to sell buns at the night market and we would have less to eat.  Each time our car required repairs, Papa would have little money to make ends meet.  We faced the same problem again this year.  Papa was left with almost nothing.  We could not afford to buy meat and vegetables.

                “We have no choice but to eat the remaining canned food in our larder,” declared Papa, sighing in dismay.

                “Does that mean that we won’t have steamed chicken and stir-fried leek for our reunion dinner this year?” asked Weng Weng, my younger brother.

                “I’m afraid so,” Papa rasped apologetically, the words seeming to stick in his throat.

                “I can make pancakes using the remaining eggs and flour,” said Mama. “Eating pancakes is filling.”

                “The flour is repulsive,” I said, “It’s full of weevils.”

                “Don’t you complain about food,” retorted Mama. “After sifting it, it’s as good as new.”

                “How ungrateful Tai Tai is,” my older sister Ah Hui hissed, glaring at me.

                “But what I’m saying is true!” I said in a raised voice, in my defense.

                “Hush, Tai!” Papa shouted. “Don’t shout at your sister.”

                Throwing Papa an angry look, I raced upstairs to our family bedroom.  The house was not ours.  It belonged to Uncle Ah Choy, the husband of Sei Ko, Papa’s youngest sister.  They had migrated to Johor permanently a couple of years before.  We could not afford to rent a house so he let us live in it.

                It wasn’t easy living in a house that didn’t belong to us.  Although we didn’t have to pay rent, we still had to scrimp and save every month in order to pay the electricity, gas, and water bills.  Due to these financial burdens Papa acted like an overly strict tyrant.  He did not allow us to take showers longer than ten minutes.  If we exceeded that time limit, he would switch off the main water supply.  Being prone to constipation, I often spent a long time in the toilet and thus became a regular victim of Papa’s ‘law enforcement’.  My body would always be covered in suds when the water stopped running.  No matter how hard I rubbed my body dry, my skin would remain sticky with soap residue.  Arguing with Papa was futile and it would result in me being caned.  My only option was to get up stealthily at midnight to take a second shower. The other thing I could not bear with Papa was his refusal to let us burn the midnight oil.  To save on electricity, we were only permitted to study until 10 p.m.  If we insisted on studying until midnight, he would bark at us and there would be no peace in the house.

                In retaliation against Papa’s unreasonable emphasis on thrift, I had started to pilfer money from him six months ago.  Papa’s money was all kept in a Danish cookie container, and each time I raided it I would take five to ten ringgit. When the stealing was done, a wicked sense of triumph would wash over me.   The amount I had stolen soon reached fifty ringgit and I kept the notes in an envelope.  I stashed the envelope in a box of old newspapers under my bed. I promised myself that I would not return the money to Papa.  I perceived that what I was doing was an act to punish Papa.  I planned to use the money to buy my favorite comic books and water-color sets. 

                Papa, I thought to myself, don’t blame me for not returning the money to you.  I ‘ve always felt small at school and you are the cause of it.  You fail to satisfy my materialistic needs and it’s time for me to fight for my own rights.  I am not selfish.  I’m turning fourteen and all I want to do is to claim what I deserved as a child.

                I looked intently at the box of newspapers under my bed.  I was sure Papa would never suspect that I had hidden fifty ringgit beneath the newspapers.  I wouldn’t mind that we would be eating canned food and pancakes for our reunion dinner. A stingy person like him ought to be taught a lesson.

                I took an old newspaper from the box and got up on my bed.  I flipped the pages back and forth in sheer agitation.  My conscience was gnawing at me.  Should I tell Papa that I had stolen his money? Would he slap me for stealing from him?

                Papa had never experienced a good life.  He had opened a grocery store ten years ago but his lack of experience made him unable to operate his business well. He suffered heavy losses, and in the end he became bankrupt.  He took this blow very hard, and became a hot tempered person.  His failure caused many of our relatives to look down on us.  In an effort to rebuild our life, Papa sold our only house and learnt how to make steamed buns.  Being a gifted cook, it didn’t take him long to master the skill.  However, selling buns in a competitive market was not easy.  His earnings were barely enough to support our family.  Papa was pitiful, wasn’t he? I thought to myself.  But strictly speaking, he should not be blamed for being unable to meet my materialistic needs.  Was it ungrateful of me to steal his money?

                The words on the newspaper before me beganto turn into a blur.  I wiped my eyes and bit my lower lip.  Guilt was building up inside me and I was trying to quell it. My hands shook with emotion.

                A rush of footsteps scrambled up the staircase and Mama’s eager voice shattered the silence of the bedroom: “Come on, Ah Hui and Weng Weng. Let’s search for money in our bedroom.  I found some one-ringgit notes in there a few days ago and we might find some more today.”

                “How much money does Papa still have?” asked Ah Hui.

                “Twenty-five ringgit,” answered Mama. “I hope there is some more money hidden in our closet and luggage bags.”

                Mama entered the room with Ah Hui and Weng Weng. Upon seeing me, Mama said “Get up Tai Tai, let’s start searching for money in this room.”

                My heart sank.  How on earth did Mama get the idea of searching the room for money?  Propping myself up on my elbows, I said “Mama, don’t waste your time. I don’t think there’s any money in the bedroom.”

                Mama frowned and said, “Tai, you don’t know how desperate I am for money.  Your papa only has twenty-five ringgit in his wallet and that’s not even enough to buy our daily necessities.  I hope God will be merciful to us by revealing the location of some stray notes and coins.”

                With that, Mama opened the closet and searched through the piles of clothes for money.  “Ah Hui, help me to take out the clothes and unfold them to see if there is money in them.  Weng Weng, open the drawers of the dressing table.  Check every corner carefully.”

                Ah Hui and Weng Weng obediently did what Mama had told them to do.  Mama dragged out Papa’s luggage bags from under his bed and opened them, searching for money.  Her eyes gleamed in anticipation of the possibility of discovering money.  Several minutes passed and their search did not yield the desired result.  Dismay was written on Mama’s face and she sighed.  My heart was pounding very fast.  I hoped she would not search the box of newspapers under my bed. 

                “Tai Tai,” asked Ah Hui. “Why are you not searching for money?”

                “I am not in the mood,” I said.  “There’s no money in the room.”

                “Mama,” said Weng Weng. “There is a box under Tai Tai’s bed. Should we search it?”

                My body stiffened in trepidation.  Everyone now cast their eyes under my bed.  Why did God plan things this way?

                “Of course,” said Mama. “Tai Tai, get up now and look for money inside the box.”

                “There is no money,” I insisted. “Leave my things alone.”

                Mama bent down and took the box out from under my bed.  She took out the newspapers one by one in search for the elusive money.  I watched on helplessly, praying to God that she would miss the envelope of fifty ringgit at the bottom. However, God did not want things to go my selfish way.

                “Ah Hui, guess what I’ve found?” Mama cried, holding the envelope I had hidden in the bottom of the box.

                “Is there money inside?” asked Weng Weng, curious.

                Mama thrust her fingers into the envelope and pulled out a thick wad of notes.

                “Praise the Lord!” Mama shouted, while counting the notes. “There’s fifty ringgit inside!”

                “Who put that money in there?” Ah Hui asked.

                “It couldn’t be Papa.  Was it you, Tai Tai?” Mama asked me, holding my arm.

                Shaking like a leaf, I mumbled yes.  Tears of shame welled up in my eyes.

                “How did you get the money?” Mama asked.

                “I took it from Papa’s Danish cookie container,” I said, tears trickling down my cheeks.

                “Why did you take it?” Mama looked at me, concerned.  There was not a hint of anger in her voice.

                “I wanted to get even with Papa,” I sobbed. “He has been too careful with money and I wanted to punish him.”

                “My dear boy,” said Mama, surprising me by giving me a hug. “Thank you for keeping the money.  Your papa and I could have spent it.”

                I looked at Mama incredulously, not knowing what to do.

                Mama’s face beamed with happiness.  She turned to Weng Weng and said, “Weng, go downstairs and tell your papa that I have found fifty ringgit.”

              I wanted to say no but no words came out of my mouth.  My body felt weak with guilt.  “Thank God for the money,” Mama kept muttering in gratitude, while planting kisses on the notes.

                In a short time Weng Weng returned to the bedroom with Papa.  The sight of the blue and red notes in Mama’s hand brought a smile to his lips.  I held my breath as Mama told him everything.  Would Papa fly into a rage and punish me?

                Unexpectedly, Papa stroked my head with his calloused hand and said, “Thank you son, I wouldn’t have known what to do without this fifty ringgit.  You have saved us from trouble.”

                The usual churlishness on Papa’s face was gone.  His eyes seemed to be glazed over with tears.  I was ashamed of myself for having misjudged him.  The only thing I could do was weep in regret.

                Papa took the money from Mama’s hand and said, “I’m going to buy some meat and vegetables in town now.  I won’t be long.”

                Before Papa went downstairs he stroked my head again.  His touch was forgiving and full of fatherly love.

                Papa bought a whole chicken, a string of Chinese preserved sausages, a can of corn, a bunch of leeks and some lettuce.  On New Year Eve, he asked Mama to steam the chicken and sausages.  Being better at preparing vegetable dishes and making soups, Papa stir-fried the leeks and cooked creamed corn soup.  Even though the dishes were the same as those of the previous years, all of us ate with more gratitude in our hearts.  It was the most meaningful reunion dinner we had ever had.

                From then onwards I stopped stealing from Papa.  I had come to terms with his acts of thriftiness.  He spent frugally to make sure that we were all well-fed.  Every cent he earned was a labor of love.  Mama and he were the best parents on earth.  Because of them, my siblings and I were able to welcome each Chinese New Year in robust health.  Materialistic riches could not replace their unconditional love.

                Looking back, it may have been God’s plan that I stole the fifty ringgit from Papa.