CHẠ̀WKHRĀW (Chxw̒kh rxw̒)

 

As usual, at the dot of 8 pm, the Guzheng plays its stirring chords, the haunting notes beginning a slow sweep, rising to a powerful crescendo and alternating with a tranquil ebbing of melody surfing me along the waves of soul-stirring, yet a serene stretch of an hour every day. 

I make it a point to sit right beside my dining room window to bask in this lulling sound therapy as my neighbor downstairs diligently plays on this zither, oblivious to my admiration. What a luxury it is to have a live orchestra while I savour the last meal of the day. It's a welcome distraction to the otherwise jarring squabbling of the playful neighbourhood children.

 The Chạ̀wkhrāw of this– that the musical household might move one day is a foreboding thought.

Foreshadowing this, deeply ingrained in me is the shattering news I had received upon returning to Singapore after an 8 month absence here. 

The Ramadan festive season was fast approaching at the end of March but the apartment where an aged Pakcik and Makcik couple (a Malay/ Singlish term used to respectfully address elderly people) used to reside a few doors away, stood deserted and dark since December when I returned.

I would puzzle about it for days on end imagining all the scenarios of them being away to visit relatives or a vacation. As time passed indefinitely for the conclusions I had made for myself, I could hold it back no longer. A Burmese house help next door whom I bumped into in the common corridor after running my errands dropped the bombshell which made me gasp audibly. 

"Ah-Ma, Ah-Gong no more already..." (Grandma, Grandpa) in Hokkein dialect.

I stood stock still trying to register what she had just said to me, gaping at her like a blind fish. I must have repeated her answer to confirm and double confirm pointing specifically at their door. She with utmost regard for my bewildered state of mind, gently said that they had indeed passed on within a few days of each other while I wasn't here.

Gripping my grocery , I could hug only the flimsy bags closer to keep me from shaking. I had known them since 2007 when I had newly moved into this neighborhood and my child was still in pre-kindergarten. 

The first apartment on the turning outside the elevator was once a happy, cozy, welcoming place with its doors wide open at all times of the day.

Makcik would have her dinner table spread out with an array of bowls and serving dishes, the aroma of mouthwatering home cooked Malay food spilling right through the front door.

“Had makan(lunch /dinner) already?”,they would courteously ask me everytime I passed by, regardless of mealtimes. It was a wonderful gesture of care and concern.

They would always lovingly call out to my daughter too when she walked across in the corridor on her way to and back from school.

I sorely miss their:

How, exams this time?

Which class now?

Wah you so big girl already! 

Nice... Study well, ah girl...

The absence of their benevolent lookout is massive.

The Chạ̀wkhrāw! 

Who would have thought in their wildest imagination! I couldn't meet either of them before the sudden calamity nor see them off with a proper final goodbye...

An iconic love story was blossoming right there around the corner and though I could sense it all through the decades, they sealed it with the iconic vow—”Till death do us part”. 

Ironically, they proved it wrong even then. They had won death over. It couldn't part them for the world. A true match made in heaven, that it still moves me to tears, bittersweet. 

The tinted sliding panes near their front door are locked flush, now only reflecting my pinched face in the sheen. The potted plants are withered and burnt to a crisp, a stark reminder of Pakcik always with his watering can tending lovinglyto his tiny collection in the mornings and greeting me with a toothless smile….

It's a somber season with their unadorned windows devoid of the usual twinkling fairy lights that would mark the festival, the hustle and bustle of family arriving to the aroma of an assortment of home cooked meal dedicatedly prepared by Makcik, the crowd of merry grandchildren around this reunion…breaking their fast at grandparents’. A blue air of extreme degrees shrouds it today. Cold and frigid...

The doors are permanently shut and the house---it's up for sale in the estate market. The youngsters and their children are not a familiar sight anymore... What can I say!

Years and years of memories when my child was also an extended granddaughter to them makes me feel so desolate. Even though we are of a different faith, Pakcik would call out to her and press a cover with an Eidiya into her palms. An emerald green cover embossed with gold lettering. The symbolic tokens are unbroken till date and the bright cover is as invaluable as a family keepsake.

Chạ̀wkhrāw–the impermanence of everything!

****

The glossy ZZ plant that now adorns my balcony holds a special significance. It was a gift from Pakcik many years ago. Every time I look at the plant now and water it, I'm reminded of their kindness and the memories we shared.

In the spirit of Chạ̀wkhrāw, I'm acknowledging that everything is transient, including relationships, experiences, and even life itself. This awareness fosters a sense of gratitude and appreciation for the time I had and still have with those around me.

I'm reminded of the importance of cherishing memories and honoring the connections we make with others. 

As waves of shudder swamp me, I get a grip on myself and realize that so much of my anxiety and stress comes from trying to control the uncontrollable, from clinging to what's familiar and fearing change. But Chạ̀wkhrāw reminds me that impermanence is the only constant.

The passing of loved ones, the ebb and flow of relationships, the inevitable changes that come when chapters come to a close– all of these experiences have taught me the value of embracing impermanence.

It's not something to be feared; it's something to be celebrated. It's a reminder that every moment is an opportunity to start anew, to rediscover ourselves.

Today, I'm going to try to cultivate a sense of Chạ̀wkhrāw in my daily life.

Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri Pakcik and Makcik…in a higher realm of paradise.

*****

Now I await to form equally treasured memories and lasting bonds with the new residents who will someday be the proud owners of their lovely, lucky home to call their own. If at all a young mother moves in, it's now my turn to pay it forward and continue the legacy of community. To be a maternal pillar in times of need.

While something inside me is deeply fragmented, each shard magnifies its reflection, the generous affection I'd been showered upon by them.

The melancholic tunes of the Guzheng drifts in punctually as I write this. It's a welcome distraction as I always say.

But it's a long winter of the heart…

PIC COURTESY:PINTEREST