There are paper pineapples blowing in the wind, hung from the rafters. They are red mostly; some are yellow. More red: streams of Chinese characters I do not recognise line the walls. This is typical Lunar New Year decor. The colours signal celebration, reunion and prosperity to come. There is a single persistent fly that …
We brave the crowds. Last minute shopping for Chinese New Year. An entire box of premium mandarin oranges. Rows of assorted canned mollusc flesh – limpets, clams and abalone. I consider a multi-coloured package of ready-to-go yee sang but you shake your head. Fresh only, you say. I nod in agreement though secretly I wonder …
I tell you I am back in Malacca. Hometown for the holidays. Reunion dinner. Chinese New Year. The whole works. I tell you it’s depressing to be back, really. My parents have sold their old house, the site of my childhood, and bought a new place. A sensible move, a smaller house for their use, …
The heat is on. And it goes on and on like some interminable Celine Dion love song. Indeed, the sense of suffocation is titanic, the simmering waves that wash over us are satanic. In this heat, lovers forgo any notion of any action remotely tantric; in fact, deep, damp breathing may leave one’s partner quite …
Out with the old, in with the new. You tell me it’s that time of the year again. We need to get rid of our old pussy willow, dusty and dry, and head out to get some fresh stalks. It’s like shopping for a Christmas tree, except this far more enjoyable. No solemn and forlorn …
Not Chinese New Year yet. Each day hotter than last. We pray for rain. Please.
It’s almost Chinese New Year, you say. We haven’t bought anything. We’ve got time, I say, no rush. It’s at least two, three weeks away. Right? You consider this. I see you doing mental calculations in your head, something I’ve never been really good at. No, you say, we don’t have two to three weeks. …
Kenny Mah believes in the good in people. He has been blogging for over ten years. No, his hands aren't tired. Yet.