A pair of glutinous rice dumplings, floating in clear ginger soup, spicy and sweet. One tong yun is pale green, coloured with pandan leaf juice and filled with dessicated coconut. The other is snow white and as I bite into it, I discover a heart of crushed peanuts.
It’s Winter Solstice. The shortest day, the longest night. We have to keep warm.
Friends and family call and text, wishing me a happy Dūngzi and asking me if I have eaten tong yun yet. I have, I answer, grateful for their care and their concern. It’s a time for spending time with our loved ones, after all. A time for reunions.
One of my friends sends me a Christmas greeting card from Taiwan. She has been on the island for the better part of two years already. It’s her home and she loves her life in Taipei but not travelling, especially during the Yuletide season, that’s hard.
Other friends tell me similar stories, and not only friends. I am in a café in Bangkok, and one of the baristas finds out I’m from Malaysia. She tells me she’s Thai, from Chiang Mai, but grew up in Ipoh. We chat in Cantonese to the bewilderment of her colleagues. She hasn’t seen her family since the pandemic started.
I do what I can and I listen. I read and reply postcards, emails and letters. We all want to be heard, to be understood, even when we are separated by thousands of miles. Even when we haven’t seen each other in months or years.
This, too, shall pass, I murmur, repeating old advice given to me a lifetime ago now, surely. We will meet again, catch up on old times, both good and bad, remember adventures or embark on new ones.