Even though it is her second trip up the Balik Pulau hill, Sanhui still turns into the wrong lane. She does not understand why her father chose to live so high above, in the middle of nowhere. But she made a promise to visit him at least three times a year.

After twists and turns, she finally reaches Lotus Garden, where the buildings are adorned in earthy tones and overhanging gable roofs. The sunlight falls on the shoulder of a large golden Guanyin Pusa statue, which meditates on top of a gigantic lotus flower with her eyes closed. The fallen leaves whistle a relaxing, serene tune that can easily soothe one’s soul. No wonder her father invested his retirement funds to secure a unit in this tranquil sanctuary, away from Ayer Itam’s hustles at the foothills.

The receptionist of the day at the entrance gives a welcoming nod and a wide grin, seemingly expecting her arrival. Sanhui nods back. It is better to not disturb the other residents or this peaceful atmosphere. Sanhui takes off her shoes and meticulously arranges them on the wooden shoe rack. The three Buddhas on the wooden altar brighten the lobby with their halo, accompanied by a recorded Buddhist sutra. Completely different from the cold and silent hospital at midnight. She follows the red sign pointing to the Elegant Suite, where her father resides, and takes the elevator up to the second floor.

Right away, Sanhui is lost in rows of identical-looking mahogany brown security doors. As expected of strata titles. She has to check from one cabinet to another, examining the names and unit numbers, until she stops at B12-5 with the name Tham Ah Loke engraved in gold. In there lies a ceramic urn, carrying her father’s ashes.

“Hey Pa,” Sanhui says. “How’re you lately?”

Her father remains in the jar.

“Surely you’re satisfied with your new home. Look at the floor, it’s so shiny that I might slip. Every morning, you can hear birds chirping, not like back at your old Greenlane home, where you were often jolted by the loud beeps.”

Her father stays unresponsive.

“Well, I brought your favourite floral tea. Chamomile from Egypt. Definitely not smuggled from the pharaoh’s tomb.”

From her tote bag, Sanhui pulls out her portable tea set, which carries a hickory brown ceramic teapot and four small matching teacups. It is supposed to be her father’s last birthday gift, hoping that he could carry them to the hiker’s gathering or the retired USM lecturers’ monthly meetups. He could have flaunted the tea storage jars that featured the Four Great Beauties of Ancient China, which store his top four dried flowers. Sanhui extracts five chamomiles from the Xi Shi jar and places them in the teapot. At the water dispenser, she fills the teapot with hot water and waits for the flowers to wake inside. Should be correct, right? She glances at her father’s unit, expecting him to manifest and correct her. But nothing happens.

“You know what, Pa. I’m working at a new hospital now. New environment, new people. I like it that way. The previous workplace—you know where—I don’t think I can work there again. It’s too traumatic, even for a nurse like me who has seen so many deaths and partings.”

Sanhui pours the aromatic, yellowish tea into two teacups. One for her and one for her father. She blows off the steam, sniffs the floral fragrance, and takes a small sip. The tea leaves a mild, earthy aftertaste on her tongue.

“Ma is doing well. Well, at least she’s trying to. She just went to her therapist last Friday. I make sure she actually talks to someone else instead of hiding in her room. She’s thinking of going back to the dance troupe, which is great. Maybe she will return to her joyful disposition soon.”

She refills her teacup, but her father’s is untouched.

“Another thing, Pa. Sanli has proposed to Michelle, if you remember her. He wanted to tell you in person last December, but it was too late. Now my poor brother has to wait for three years. He was a bit mad and quite disappointed; Michelle and he had planned to have an autumn wedding in Kyoto. Let’s see if they can still maintain their relationship a bit longer.”

Sanhui talks, refills her tea, drinks, and talks again. Her voice echoes through the chamber, amplifying her voice. Her father just listens but never shows a response. Back then, he could crack a historical joke, spout lengthy trivia about tea, or reminisce about his adventures as a lecturer. Now he is stuck in a small, claustrophobic unit, where he slumbers for eternity.

Her father’s tea has cooled. He said it is better to drink it warm, or else the cold will upset the stomach. But Sanhui does not care. She chugs her father’s tea, letting the floral sensation moisturise her dry throat.

#END#

Glossary

Guanyin Pusa: The Goddess of Mercy, or Guanyin the Bodhisattva in Mandarin.

Xi Shi: One of the Four Great Beauties of Ancient China, whose beauty had mesmerised the fishes until
they sank to the bottom of the river.

– Jenny Hor