WriterJournal

The Seventh Month of the Lunar Calendar

July 26, 2006 on 8:04 pm | In In Progress, Ghost Stories | Comments Off

I started this story by writing a para-a-day on each day of the seventh month of the lunar calendar in 2006. Obviously, the project was abandoned due to more ‘important’ projects and actually pure laziness and lack of discipline on my part.
Some notes - Seventh Month of the Lunar Calender is also termed as the Ghost Month in the Chinese-dominant parts of Asia. It is the time whereby the gates of hell are opened for the dead to wander freely on earth…During this period of time, many Chinese will burn paper offerings to the dead, with the belief that the latter will receive these offerings and be appeased.
In Singapore, Malaysia and Hong Kong, where the Ghost Festival is most celebrated, there are Chinese Opera/ Singing outdoor-events with a lot of food and whole ton of paper offerings being burnt.

As and when I get a stray thought about ghosts, or as the character of Xiwen takes form in my head, I will add another para or so. This is written in a typical Singapore short story style.

Ah Beng squatted by the drain next to his father. The warm evening sun was hidden behind the block of high storey flats. Nevertheless, Ah Beng felt beads of sweat on his forehead and the back of his t-shirt was already sticking to his body. The drain was dry but stinking and he could see the roaches and ants crawling about. “Today is the first day of the seventh month,” Ah Beng’s father said, “We need to burn all these for them today. Quick, help me with the candles.”

Grudgingly, Ah Beng took two red candles from the bulging red plastic bag and stabbed it through the yellow grass into the cracked earth. For a moment, Ah Beng thought of using his new Zippo lighter, a gift from Ah Lian, to light the candles but he picked up the box of matches from the red plastic bag instead.

“Ah Beng! Such a good boy to your old father.” It was Auntie Lim from the sixth floor. Ah Beng scrowled. He hated people calling him Ah Beng.

“Yes. My Ah Beng is a good boy,” Ah Beng’s father nodding in approval while laying out the various offerings on the parched grass, “Every year, he will help me with this. You know, his mother died when he was still very young but never once did he cry and ask for her. He understands. He is a good boy.”

Ah Beng stared at the box of matches. This box of matches has been in his family for as long as he could remember. His father had always used the matches from this box to light the candles for big festivals like Qing Ming and the Ghost Month. There used to be a picture of a pretty woman on the box. She was wearing the traditional cheongsam and was holding onto a fan. A faint little smile playing on her lips, oriental eyes, a dash of pink on the cheeks and a very dated hairstyle. Ah Beng remembered that he had found her very pretty and had always wanted to hold the box of matches for his father just so that he could look at her.

Once, many years ago, Ah Beng had asked his father about this woman.

It was also on the first day of the Seventh Month, when Ah Beng’s father told him the story of this beautiful woman. Ah Beng had been waiting for an opportunity to ask his father right from the moment he laid eyes on the box of matches again - the last time Ah Beng had seen it was during Qing Ming, four months back - and he simply could not wait any longer. Secretly hoping that his father would be in a good mood and tell him the story, Ah Beng had performed the ‘duties’ of a filial son by taking the heaviest bag of offerings he could carry and offering to lay out the items in the neat way his father had always done. His efforts were not in vain. After the last of the incense paper turned into a grey pool of ashes, Ah Beng’s father had said, “Come my son, let’s go for a drink at the kopitiam. I will buy you a bottle of Coke. The weather is so warm and you must be tired after the long day in school.”

Her name was Xiwen and she was a singer from Malaysia. She was only sixteen when her songs were heard over the radio and by her seventeenth birthday, she had already toured the whole of Asia. She had even appeared in several programmes on television. Xiwen’s fame brought her an anticipated life of plenty. Coming from a backward village in Malaysia, Xiwen’s family was much poorer than anyone else. She attended no school, learnt no written words and everyday, she would help her mother with the cooking and washing in the big colonial houses far away from the hut Xiwen and her family lived in.

When she was a young girl, she would listen and silently sing along with the maids who worked in the houses. The maids despised Xiwen and her mother because they felt superior in their neat and ironed uniforms while the mother and daughter went about in simple and rather tattered cotton clothes. Also, most of the maids were able to read and write. They had access to the radio too and that was where they learnt all the songs from.

Xiwen would sing silently in her heart because she was not allowed to talk whenever they were around. She was there to help her mother with the cooking and washing, she was not there to talk or to make any noises. Once she sang a little song, which had played in her mind for the entire morning until she could not bear it any longer, in her soft sweet voice and unluckily for her, she was overheard by a maid who was just a few years her senior. Envious of Xiwen’s voice, this maid broke two plates in front of Xiwen and pushed the blame to her.

From that incident on, Xiwen was not allowed to go near the house. She could no longer help her mother with her. Xiwen spent her time at home looking after the even younger children of her neighbours. Alone, Xiwen’s mother worked and worked until one day, she was taken ill.