Monthly Archives: February 2016

Mahjong, commonly played by four players, is the most played card game in the world, the card was replaced by tiles sometimes in the 1850s. It is a “draw and discard” game to form “melds” which consist of forming a set of three or four identical tiles and/or a set of three in sequence of the same suit, not too unlike the Western card game of “Rummy”. “Mahjong” is the literal translation for the Chinese word “Sparrow”. What makes mahjong mesmerizing is its inexhaustive combinations of play leading to a wide range of scenarios which the players have to deal with great skill lest they loose the game.

“Mahjong” is the literal translation of the Chinese word “Sparrow”

A dying breed of mahjong shops in Hong Kong.

When I arrived in Hong Kong in 1966 I could not miss the clacking sound of the mahjong tiles all over the city, whether it be from the living room of my neighbour, the corner space in a local store, the dining hall of restaurant, or simply in the open air under the banyan tree. Mahjong was also joyously played by guests at weddings for a few hours prior to serving dinner. The game, though innocent as a game of chess in outward appearance, has in fact a strong element of “gambling” with a burning urge on the part of the players to win. After all, I have yet to find a Hong Kong person willing to sit at the mahjong table for hours on end, if it is not for the chance to make some money. Gambling was and is still illegal in Hong Kong and to get around being caught by Police, the players used “chips” which at the end of the game would be paid back in hard currency.

Unlike the game of poker where all the players sit silently, without saying a word or making any abrupt body movement, mahjong was played in Hong Kong with a lot of fanfare. Firstly the players would be chattering, if not shouting, incessantly telling or bragging or complaining about any and everything. From telling about their misery at the office or their lucky winnings at the Race Course to the annoyance of their unbearable wives at home. Secondly the tiles were discarded with utmost energy, with a heavy bang on the mahjong board, the louder the merrier. If the radio could blast the latest Cantonese Opera Song to the already hectic environment, so much the better. Needless to say all the noise had to be complemented with incessant smoking and/or drinking Chinese tea, beer or alcohol. A serious real party it was!

Concentration is the key to winning a game of mahjong, apart from luck.

Women were no less immune to this contagious game, and they did get together for regular mahjong. What better opportunity was there to gossip the afternoon or night away, enjoying anecdotes of cheating husbands and opining strategies as how to keep their conniving husbands under their grip, or bragging about their good fortune, a favourite pastime among some self centred and snobbish “tai tai” wives.

Though traditional Confucian Chinese family snubbed at any sort of gambling particularly among the young children, it was acceptable practice to let young teenagers play a game of mahjong at home, within the comfort of the family circle. So it was not any surprise that small kid, as young as 10 years old, playing mahjong with mom, grandma and other siblings.

Despite against the teaching of Confucius, children are allowed to play mahjong within the boundary of the family circle.

For a long time bribery was a quick way to get things done in Hong Kong, and corruption was so rampant that the Government created ICAC (Independent Commission Against Corruption) in 1974 to put a check on the illegal practice. Mahjong became an alternate venue for people to continue to indulge in bribery without running foul of the law. An orchestrated loss at a friendly mahjong game enabled the passing of money from one person to another, a convenient way to safe bribery.

After work as Western people went to the bar to have a beer, the Hong Kong counterparts, mainly the male workers, went for a long evening of Mahjong. The city played good host to this addictive activity, in that most restaurants offered comfortable venue for the game which could last till the wee hour of the morning. Dinner served in between and snacks and drinks all through the night. Such a habit did not always bode well with the wives and was not conducive to a harmonious family environment. The game was, in all respect, a gambling game and involved money, the stake of which was pre-agreed among the players, could be a dollar a point or the sky the limit. Many players returned home broke and unable to feed their family. How many families were thus broken your guess is as good as mine.

However evil it is, Mahjong can work well for some people. First, it brings people together, whether they are members of the family, colleagues, neighbours or acquaintances, and is a good and enjoyable way to build friendship. My mother-in-law used to play regular mahjong with her neighbours, one of whom was in her nineties at the time. I had also played a few games with my mother-in-law to be, and it was an open secret that one should let mother-in-law win to gain her favour, lest she forbade her daughter to have anything to do with you. Mahjong game can also enhance your career. My wife’s brother-in-law who worked for the Taxation Office was at a dead end in his career for many years, until one day he was given the opportunity to become a regular mahjong player with some of his superiors. Then on, his career just flourished. Mahjong is also believed to improve health as the players are in regular motion, like doing mild exercise, as they shuffle and play the tiles. Further the brain is in constant alert, having to formulate strategies and remember your opponents’ every move, beneficial to individuals suffering from dementia.

Mahjong keeps this aging lady active and healthy.

Mahjong can also break friendship whence one player keeps winning and consequently fester frustration and angers amongst the others, or when one player plays discriminately against another to his irritation.

For the diehard gamblers there were, and some still exist to this day, licensed mahjong parlours where they could play with other unknown individuals. These parlours were considered undesirable places by most citizens and were believed to be run by Triads, the local mafia. The chance of winning was slim considering that your opponents might be part of a team or gang that discreetly collaborated to ensure your downfall. Other diehard players might participate in marathon games lasting from Friday evening to Sunday night. Then there were annual Mahjong Competitions, for the brave and daring, staged in many Asian countries where the winner earned the title of “Mahjong King”. For many players the most frustrating part was when a game had to be aborted because one player defaulted at the last minute and a replacement could not be found. The feeling was similar to that of a kid waiting for the promised ice cream that never arrived. A miserable ruined day.

Dare you to play at the licensed mahjong parlour.

There are also, till today, “social” unlicensed low-stake neighbourhood mahjong parlours in Hong Kong, catering to the retired mom and dad, grandma and grandpa types who just want to spend a couple of hours of leisure. These parlours, just the same, get raided by Police from time to time

Police raid at a “social” neighbourhood unlicensed mahjong parlour.

Mahjong is addictive, and Hong Kong people who have immigrated often continue to play the game with their friends in the new country. My neighbour, whose father and mother-in-law just landed in Toronto from Anhui Province in China, casually suggested a game of mahjong with them. I just learn that Mahjong has become the favourite past time of the Chinese people, this within a short period of time as China had banned mahjong from 1949 to 1985 because it was considered a “bourgeois” vice.

Superstition has been a part of Chinese culture for thousand of years and this belief is manifested widely day to day, even when playing a game of mahjong. The game always starts with the players given an opportunity to choose one of the four seats, done through the throw of the dices. If you understand “Fung Shui”, the art of geomancy, you would probably choose an auspicious spot such as away from the sight of the lavatory or away from traffic behind your back. If you are continuously loosing or one opponent is constantly winning, you would like to break up this cycle by getting up and requesting to go to the washroom. Some players would wear specific underwear, red carries good omen, or wear lucky clothing or trinkets. Others resort to humming or singing as a way to frustrate their opponents and bring them bad luck. You are free to make up your own remedy. It might work!.

A typical family run “boulangerie” when I was growing up in Mauritius in 1950’s

1950’s – At 6.30 in the morning sharp, the sun had barely broken the horizon, I would hear loud “Bang Bang!” on the door of our corner boutique. We were all still in bed, my brothers, my sisters, half conscious of what was going on. But there were no panic because the Bang was a routine occurrence, it was the delivery man from the “Boulangerie”, our local bakery. The delivery man arrived on bicycle, always punctual and in a hurry, with two big straw sacks full of bread, like huge beach bags, hanging on both sides of the handlebar. Our order was fixed at 100 loaves everyday, except on special days such as a public holiday, when we would request an extra 30 loaves. The delivery man would quickly transfer the bread into our own straw sacks, four at a time, two per hand, while making a count … quatre, huit, douze… under the prying eyes of my mother. We sold a loaf at five cents while our cost was four cents. If we were shorted by two loaves, and it would happen if we were not diligent, we would have to sell eight more loaves to cover the loss.

Bread was delivered from “La Boulangerie” to “La boutique” in two straw sacks hanging on both sides of the handlebar of the bicycle

The boulangerie, I had observed, only baked two types of bread. The “pain maison”, a rustic bread roll and the “moule”, a rectangular bread which in Hong Kong, I later found out, people call it “pillow” bread because it looked like a pillow used in Ancient China. Actually my brother-in-law’s father used one to sleep in the 1950’s. The recipe was unique, passed from generation to generation by earlier settlers to the Island. We did not carry the “moule” at our boutique for it priced itself out in our neighbourhood. We only sold the “pain maison” which was a bit larger than the roll normally found in supermarket today, and it had a distinctive straight deep wide scar across its dome, I imagine, to ease its breaking in two. The inside crumb was light, fluffy and chewy and the crust light, airy, crusty and crumbly, unlike some rock hard crusts that sometimes cut into your gum. The bread always arrived hot at our boutique and for an extra two cents we would slice open the bread and spread a thin layer of margarine or butter. For those who could afford it, the “pain maison” was best taken with a couple of “gateau piment” known as dhal fritters or chilli cakes made from yellow split peas, or sardines with “piment confit” pickled chillies, or “vegetable achard” which is similar to coleslaw but hot, spicy and stir fried in curry powder. The latter three condiments were fiery and they burned your tongues, numbed your lips and triggered a cascade of sweats down your foreheads and necks. Then, if we could gobble a bottle of ice cold coke, it would be paradise on earth. That was the way we liked to eat our bread.

This is the closest to “Pain Maison” as I knew it.

“Moule” bread. The Hong Kong people call such bread as “pillow bread” for its resemblance to a Chinese pillow used in the old days.

“Vegetable Achard” similar to coleslaw, but hot, spicy, fiery, stir fried in curry powder.

“Gateau Piment” a popular Mauritian delicacy till today, made of yellow split peas, garlic and green chillies and deep fried

Mauritius “Piment Confit”, green chillies marinated in vinegar, a must to eat with sardines

To slice the bread my mother used a huge Chinese cleaver, the only knife in our armoury, which she swung, on occasions, above her head to scare off the local bully. The same cleaver had once sliced a small corner off the tip of my left index finger, when at six-year old I attempted to chop a small cork for my water bottle. As blood was oozing out from my finger, I rushed into the bedroom and told my elder sister, without daring to make any noise. We were both too scared to tell mother lest being severely scolded. My sister wrapped my wound with a piece of white cloth which stopped the bleeding, and quietly I slipped out of the house and went to school. The visible scar had remained with me since. I learned a good lesson with knives.

The boulangerie was located ten minutes by foot from our boutique, the hours of operation unconventional. The work had to done throughout the night, which was tiresome and hard on the workers, because the bread had to be ready in the early morning so that it remained hot when reaching the inhabitants. If the bread was prepared too early it would sit on the shelf cold and if too late there would be no customer. The locals loved to have a hot bread before they departed for work in the wee hour of the morning.

We, curious “petit-camarade”, liked to hang around the boulangerie just to savour the aroma of the freshly baked bread. We further liked more to watch the workers at work. The building housing the bakery was primitive and unimposing, likely built before the turn of the previous century. From the outside the structure looked like any other stone house in the neighbourhood, with a small door and window, the roof corrugated metal sheets. Inside was a single room, rather dark except from the sun rays coming in from the door and a small window, a hundred square feet or two in size, with bales of flour stacked in one corner. The wall facing the main entrance was built with stone. It had a small opening with a small metal gate, and behind it hid the belly of the oven. Against the adjacent wall sat an elevated large wooden trough, bathtub size, similar to the water trough for horses which we saw a lot in John Wayne’s movies. Here, flour would be dumped in, water added with a sprinkle of salt. Sometimes a cockroach or two and sweats from the kneader’s face, might find their way into the dough, the kneader not able or interested to see or know, under the excuse of the dim light. It was no big deal. There were no Consumer Agency to file a complaint. The kneading was performed no differently from what my mother would do at home when making crackers at Chinese New Year, except that the picture was magnified hundred times, the workers working harder with both hands, bending over the trough for two hours or more at a time.

A kneader working hard over a bathtub size wooden trough filled with flour

When the dough reached a nice and smooth, spongy and bouncy consistency the cutter stepped in. He was the person responsible to cut the dough into different shapes, but in our local boulangerie only the “pain maison” and the “moule” were baked. The moule bread was easy to make, just throw in enough dough into a rectangular baking tray, then into the oven. The making of the loaf was more interesting. The dough was beaten, rolled and pulled into the shape of a long baguette on a large wooden table. With great skill and ease the cutter, using a small rectangular aluminum blade as a knife, folded at one end for ease of handling, pinched a handful of dough off the long baguette. With the fingers of both hands, he massaged the dough into small promontory before applying a final slash on the top. The kneader could do the routine with eyes closed, his movements were like a broken record that sang the same tune over and over again, yet soothing to our little eyes.

The dramatic part, for us little kids, was when the “Brigadier” started his routine. The brigadier was the person who mobilized the uncooked dough for their entry into the oven by way of a “giant spatula”, a ten foot wooden pole attached at one end to a square metal blade. Six of the dough would be aligned on the blade in two rows of three. With military precision and fluency, the brigadier would glide the pole inside the oven through the small opening on the wall, and positioned the dough inside the oven, side by side and row by row, as if they were soldiers ready for battle. The oven would be preheated with firewood several hours earlier. Looking through the small opening we could see sporadic shots of fire, and occasionally a gust of hot air coming from the oven would hit our sweaty face. Then without the assistance of a time clock, the brigadier would be recovering the now baked bread with the same spatula, again scooping the hot bread in two rows of three on the metal blade. The breads were deposited in a large wooden box from where they were swiftly transferred into straw sacks and counted, ready for the delivery men to take them away, without delay on bicycle, to the boutiques within their area of responsibility.

Bread is the oldest prepared food in the world, originated thousands of years ago. Today we go to the supermarket and pick up the bread we want from a variety of choices, in the city there are bakeries baking their own bread, pastry and cake. In 1950’s Mauritius, we only had the “Boulangerie” which exclusively baked bread and nothing else. Bread fed the neighbourhood, the city and the country. Boulangeries were small family operations, spread around the city, each serving a small area with a radius of only a mile or so long. The area could not be extended too wide because it would be impossible, with the lacking transportation system, to deliver the bread “hot” to the consumers. Staff absenteeism was also a threat to the operation of the boulangerie. Often, several days a week, the kneader, the cutter and the brigadier would one or the other, as a matter of habit, call sick, sick from drunkenness if not tiredness. The owner and other members of the family were always trained and prepared to step in.

How we eat our bread has its own culture. In Mauritius as small kids we used to remove the inside crumb from the loaf and ate only the crust. In Hong Kong, the people sliced off the skin on the four sides of the “pillow” bread and ate only the inside white crumb. Bread baked in oven fired by wood tasted absolutely different, absolutely sensational. The aroma of the freshly baked warm bread and the melting butter never failed to drive the locals to roll their eyes and draw long deep breath in full contentment as they dipped into the first bite. The local Creole people lovingly called the sensation “cram cram”, crunchy crunchy. It was bread made in Heaven, to never have its match.

A Chinese pillow used in the old days. Hong Kong people call the rectangular bread “pillow bread” for its similar shape.

February 8, 2016 was Chinese New Year and across the world in major cities there were celebrations to welcome the year of the Monkey.

The most distinctive feature of the Chinese New Year, when I was growing up in Mauritius, was the setting off of firecrackers. Firecrackers were traditionally used to scare off evil spirits. I remember clearly on New Year day, as early as the first cockcrow, the clacking sound of firecrackers around town. When one string of firecrackers had reached its end, another would be starting somewhere else as if they were in a relay.

When I arrived in Hong Kong in 1966 the use of firecrackers continued at Chinese New Year. I remember people going to Victoria Park in Causeway Bay (still going strong today) to “walk” the flower market, a huge gathering of makeshift stalls selling flowers and plants and other joyous articles fit to buy during the New Year. Then there were people who would be lighting firecrackers and throwing them at the crowd in their lust for excitement and fun. Needless to say accidents did occur, causing bodily harm to people, particularly small kids. A couple of years later Hong Kong completely banned the use of firecrackers. Instead, since 1982, The Hong Kong Government organizes fireworks in Victoria Harbour on the Second day of the Chinese New Year. Many countries have also banned the use of firecrackers but still some diehard fanatics would acquire smuggled firecrackers and set them off to satisfy their desire.

Firecrackers dramatic and boisterous at Chinese New Year

Chinese New Year remains the most celebrated festivity in China. All factories in China close for a straight seven to ten days or more, to allow workers to go back to their hometown to unite with their parents and relatives. This year 50,000 people, eager to get home for the New Year reunion, were stranded at Guangzhou train station in Southern China for several days when adverse weather conditions delayed a series of trains.

Compared to Mauritius, Chinese New Year in Hong Kong is more elaborate, more traditional, more flamboyant and more pompous. It all starts several days before the arrival of the New Year. Families would ensure that their homes are spotless and that they have paid off all their debts, so as to start the New Year on a clean slate. Sweeping the floor during New Year is taboo as it means sweeping away the good fortune of the household.

A typical home would have on its wall red posters and cutouts depicting auspicious Chinese calligraphic words such as “good fortune”, “prosperity” and “good health”. Flowers and plants are also very important decorative accessories, the most popular plants are the “Kumquat” and “Peach Blossom”. Kumquat which resembles a small orange the size of a large olive has the Chinese words “gold and luck” in it and so is very auspicious, a symbol of abundance and happiness. Peach Blossom symbolizes growth, prosperity, long life and romance, and is particular favoured by singles in search of a soul mate and business owners in hope of making more money. In Hong Kong it has become an unofficial annual event for restaurants to compete for the honour of displaying the most beautiful “Peach Blossom Tree” at the entrance of their establishments, leading business owners to bid in the thousands of dollars to get their hand on the best tree, can be as tall as thirty feet high, from commercial growers.

Paper cutout always red in colour brightens Chinese homes in Hong Kong

Kumquat on sale at Victoria Park New Year “Flower Market” in Hong Kong

Chinese are very superstitious when it comes to colour. Red represents Good Luck and is extensively used on happy occasions such as Chinese New Year, wedding, graduation and arrival of a new baby. On New Year morning we all have to wake up earlier than usual, wear our best clothes often complemented with a red traditional Chinese jacket. The first words we say on New Year day when we see other members of the family and acquaintances, are “Kung Hei Fat Choy”, translates as “Congratulations on achieving prosperity”. This greeting is said respectfully with our two hands clasped into a ball close to our chest like when praying.

Next come the most exciting part for the children. Parents would hand to the kids small red envelopes containing lucky money known as “Lai See”. Lai See is presented with both hands and received with both hands, accompanied by a small bow of the head, as a sign of respect and good manner. Lai See is supposed to bring good luck and prosperity and ward off evil spirits.

Receiving “Lai See” by young girl in red traditional New Year dress.

The giving of “Lai See” brings a lot of joy to a lot of people at Chinese New Year. Children and unmarried persons no matter their age, eagerly look forward to receiving the red packet not only from the parents, but also from relatives, acquaintances and parent’s friends and colleagues. Unintentionally a competition of some sort comes into play among the children to see who would end up with the most money. The red envelope contains money which sum is typically even number and must not contain the number “Four” which sounds like the Chinese word for death. If you are married and you come face to face with children of relatives or friends, you are expected to give them a red packet. Else you would end up harshly embarrassed by the thought that people are gossiping behind your back as being a devil of a miser. In all reality some real misers would avoid such embarrassment by quickly switching direction and disappearing out of sight of incoming relatives and friends.

There are also other groups of people who look forward to Chinese New Year in order to receive a red packet and they are no children. We can count among others, employees receiving Lai See from the boss, waiters from the diners, garbage collectors from the landlords, butchers and vegetable sellers from the customers. After all they deserve it, don’t they!

At Chinese New Year it is traditional and respectful for people to personally pay a visit to other important and revered relatives, friends and colleagues at their place of residence to offer gifts and best wishes. Husband and wife may go together or either one alone. A child may plead to go along, and it is often allowed, as it is an opportunity for the kid to receive more lucky money.

Some people use this Chinese New Year tradition to suck up to their boss and people of position. The most common is where a low rank employee visits a superior to offer gifts and good wishes in the hope that he would receive favourable consideration when an important position is available at the office. Likewise owners of small business would bring gifts to senior staff of large corporations, so that they may be favoured with some future business contracts. To play the politic well, the visitor always tries to be the first in line at the host’s house, so that the event may be easily remembered and produce the desired effect. Interestingly the third day of New Year is a day to remain home so as to avoid encountering evil spirit on the streets, less visiting people on this day ends up in quarrel.

Every family would also make sure that they have lots of goodies in the house as a sign of prosperity and abundance. My mother used to make deep fried sesame balls made of flour and sweet potato, shrimp chips and deep fried pretzel shaped crispy crackers. They were stored in large glass jars to be enjoyed in the New Year but as a kid I could not resist sneaking into the room to get my hand on some beforehand.

My mother made delicious sweet chewy sesame balls for us at New Year

It is paramount that all members of the family gather together with parents and grandparents to have a “family reunion dinner” on the first day of New Year. Some filial sons and daughters even travel half way round the world, as necessary, just to be home for the dinner. The dishes at the table are carefully selected, dishes must carry names that sound propitious, such as oyster which sounds like “good thing” in Chinese. The black moss, a black hair like weed, sounds like “become rich”. Fish sounds like “surplus” of money. Round ball in soup sounds like “reunion”. New Year cake sounds like “year by year advancement”.

Paying homage and offering thanks to God during New Year is widely practised in Hong Kong. Most families would burn joss sticks at home, other more superstitious worshippers would go to their favourite temple, the most patronized being Wong Tai Sin Temple in Kowloon and Che Kung Temple in Shatin. Huge crowd, young and old, men and women, would be massing at the Temple door waiting for the stroke of midnight to race, with lighted joss sticks in their hand, to be the first to plant the stick incense at the altar. This way their prayer and wishes would reach heaven quicker.

Being first to plant your joss stick at the Altar at Wong Tai Sin Temple on New Year day ensures your prayer and wishes reach Heaven quicker, so they think.

In the Chinese calendar each year is dedicated to one of the 12 animals of the Zodiac, starting with the rat and finishing with the pig. Then the cycle repeats itself every twelve years.

The twelve animals of the Chinese Zodiac

One legend had it that a long time ago the Jade Emperor invited all the animals of the Kingdom to a meeting and decreed that the years on the calendar would be named for each animal in the order they arrived to the meeting. To reach the meeting place the animals had to cross a river.

The cat and the rat were poor swimmers but quite intelligent. They asked to ride on the back of the Ox who being naïve and good hearted, agreed. Half way the rat pushed the cat in the water, and nearing the river bank he jumped ashore to claim first spot on the Zodiac. The Ox took second place.

The tiger arrived next, explaining to the Emperor, that he had to fight the strong current of the river, but with his strength managed to get on shore and he secured the third place.

Then the rabbit arrived, boasting how he jumped from stone to stone, almost slipped but managed to grab a floating log to get on shore. He got the fourth place.

The dragon came in fifth place. The Emperor was curious as to how a swift flying dragon could be that late. The dragon explained that he had to stop and make rain for the people and creatures of the Earth due to a forest fire. Further close to finishing line, he saw the rabbit struggling on the log and he gave him a puff of his breath to get him to shore.

With a galloping sound the horse arrived, with the snake clung to its hoof. Startled with the sight of the snake, the horse fell back, giving the snake an advantage and sixth place and him the seventh.

The goat, the monkey and the rooster arrived as a group. They had mustered their resources together and worked as a team helping each other on the way. They got the eighth, ninth and tenth place respectively.

The dog arrived in eleventh place. The Emperor was perplexed as to why the dog, being the best swimmer, was so late. The dog explained that he needed a good bath after a long spell, while in reality he could not resist playing a little longer in the cool water of the river.

Just as the Emperor was about to declare the competition “close”, an oink and squeal was heard. The pig had arrived. He explained that he got hungry on the way, stopped for a feast and fell asleep. The last spot was awarded to him.

The cat never made it, having drowned, due to the foul play of the rat. The cat swore to chase the rat forever to get even with him.

1966 – Barely three months on the job at Harley Mullion, I submitted my resignation in July 1966. Not that I was unhappy with my work, not that I had secured a better or more satisfying job, but because I had received a letter. A letter that could change my life, my destiny. When I was in Mauritius and after completing the Cambridge Higher School Certificate (Form VII) , and like many other school graduates, I had sent in applications for scholarship for higher studies to a number of Institutions around the world, England, Canada, France, Ceylon (now known as Sri Lanka).

I was pretty good at drawing and I love geometry, the straight line and the curve line, the angle and the triangle, the square and rectangle. I often thought that I could be a successful architect, if my family had the financial resources to see me through higher education. My application to the Ceylon scholarship was for a draughtsman course, a fraction of architectural studies. Nonetheless I was satisfied.

I did not know anyone who had the good fortune of obtaining a scholarship and I did not pin my hope too much on this possibility. Then out of the blue, more than a year after my application, I received a letter from the Government of Ceylon offering me a scholarship for one year to study in Colombo. It seemed that the Ceylon Government had gone through the trouble of locating me in Hong Kong, I had not informed any of the Scholarship Institutions of my change of abode. This was a blessing and luck, I thought. I could have been shifted aside.

I was exhilarated with the news, oh my Lord… I was going to a new country to study for a year, all paid for. I must be a lucky person beyond imagination. I had some idea of Ceylon landscape, lush tropical rain forest, tigers and elephants, world famous tea plantation, fabulous temples, the bustling city of Colombo, and I kept picturing myself inside this landscape and dreaming of all the exotic places that I could visit and all the new people that I could meet, a natural fantasy of any young lad. Hence the reason for my resignation.

The Tranquility of the Ceylon landscape would have taken my breath away.

Buddhist Temple in Ceylon

The majestic tiger of Ceylon as I had imagined in 1966

Truthfully I was placed at a crossroad between staying in Hong Kong and accepting the Colombo scholarship. Would I miss Hong Kong, yes I would, but I did not blink. I would go. I was to leave in August that year, giving me a couple of weeks of free time to enjoy the rest of the stay. What my future would be as a result of this deviation, no one knew and I never bothered to attempt at a guess. Quite often people find themselves at a crossroad, and the path they choose would determine their future, their good fortune, their destiny. My life and destiny too would change completely if I had gone to Colombo, as it was a condition of the offer that I should return to my home country to work for at least one year. Returning back to Hong Kong after that seemed an improbability.

Then came the rain! I received a second letter from Colombo. Not a good news but not as disastrous as to deny me the scholarship. There had been an error in the attendance date made by the University Administration. School was to start way later in November, not in August. I had therefore to wait and linger for another three months. Three boring months without a job, without an income, without something to keep me occupied, I would be reckless. I struggled for a week, my mind could not stop debating, what should I do, wait patiently or give up the scholarship. For the first time I started to make an assessment of my future, would I really benefit from the scholarship. When I returned to Mauritius after the study were there career potential in draughtsmanship. Hong Kong was booming in the 1960’s, career prospects for people with good English language skill were enticing. Hong Kong was attracting foreign companies, European and American and more, to set up shop, open offices, open factories, my skills were in great demand. Mauritius, though a paradise island in itself, was comparatively a backwater to Hong Kong in terms of commerce, trade and economic activities. Hong Kong was on a different league. Further my friend Cyril and I had recently made acquaintance with a couple of beautiful Hong Kong office ladies, one destined to become my better half. Was this the final straw, I could not tell.

Mind set, I wrote back to Ceylon and respectfully renounced their offer. I guessed the second letter from Colombo had put me a second time on a crossroad in my life, and I liked to think that the second letter offset the first letter. I was back to where I was.

Moving forward I would find myself standing at many more crossroads in my life. Sometimes I would rewind and imagine that I had taken a different road and tried to envision the consequence or result of taking this alternate path. My parents believed that everything was written even before you were born. As a matter of fact my father had a soothsayer check the future of all the children as soon as we were born. The prediction was based on the time and date of birth and gender of the child, I still had mine written on a sheet of paper, now turning yellowish after almost three quarter century, written in pencil, and I have kept this piece of document till today. Many older Chinese also believe destiny is preset and I fervently believe it too. In some way when I have to choose a path, it is already written and predestined that I would take this path, there is no avoidance. In one of the Chinese Historical TV dramas that I have recently watched and enjoyed, and I have watched quite a handsome, I noted a saying which summed it all: Whatever path you choose is fine so long as at the end you have no regret.

This is my prediction written by a Soothsayer in 1946 with pencil on paper

Circa 1950. Chinese came to Mauritius as early as 1780’s, originally Cantonese from Canton and later overwhelmed by Hakka people from Meixian, a district North East of Guangdong. From Mauritius some of these early immigrants, compelled by a bleak survival prospect, spread out to the southern part of Africa, Madagascar, Reunion and Seychelles. These early Chinese were very business minded and the majority opened shops all over the island.

When I was three or four, my parents, as a matter of course, acquired a shop, a small corner store which the local people called: “La Boutique”, the French name for shop. It engaged in selling mainly daily necessities, such as rice, flour, oil, salt and sugar, spices, bread, fruit, canned goods, cigarette and wine. Then there was the “Magasin”, another name for store but a bigger, more prestigious establishment selling more expensive household items, such as fabrics and clothes, pots and pans, toys and decorative items, appliances and furniture. As a kid I had envied the children from the “Magasin” as they were visibly way better off than we children from the “La Boutique”.

A typical boutique in the 1960’s

A typical “Magasin” in the 1960’s

Most boutiques were located at the corner of two streets or roads. Ours was at the corner of Aleppo Street and another street which name I have forgotten and which had since been renamed. Our shop was a single story building, stone walls bordering the two streets, and wood structure within the house, the roof corrugated aluminum sheets. The shop was small, no more than two hundred square feet, with a smaller adjacent room for serving wine and liquor, a miniature “tavern”. Our residence, a one bedroom unit, was connected to the shop by a small door. The one bed room unit opened into an open space with a small makeshift kitchen cum bathroom. Close by the kitchen was a small area protected from the sun by a leaky tin roof and paved with uneven stones which was used as a dining space for the family. We had a small yard fenced by flimsy tin sheets and odd wooden planks. In the yard was a small stone basin built on the ground with a tap where we washed our dishes and clothes. The toilet was outside our yard and shared by the neighbours.

Our shop location was not ideal with little potential as the west side to the shop was mainly open field and forest with no inhabitants. As a small kid I often thought that we did not provide good customer service and therefore attracted less clientele, I had observed that other Chinese shops in the neighbourhood were doing brisk business but not us. My mother was exceedingly harsh, rude and confronting with some customers which in later years I understood why. The shop was run by my mother and my eldest brother who was then only fourteen or fifteen years old. I didn’t know why my father was not involved in the shop and instead he was working as a resident manager of a Chinese Business Club downtown. Could be he was not conversant in the local creole dialect. Without the presence of a male adult the security of the shop was not on solid ground as we were located in a poorer, somewhat remote, less educated neighbourhood. My mother, therefore, had to constantly project an image of “toughness” and a no-nonsense attitude towards exceedingly dominant troublemakers. Many a time I saw her swinging menacingly a huge Chinese cleaver towards misbehaving and unruly hooligans. It was all for show, no hurting meant. I also remember many a time drunk adults causing disturbance in our shop, breaking bottles and glasses, swearing and pushing, looking for a fight. Police was sometimes called but they did not response promptly or in time. This “going to happen again” scenario was not their priority. One time my second eldest brother, then fifteen or sixteen years old, took care of one threatening drunkard by quietly going behind him with a bottle in his hand and hitting him hard on the head. The message was delivered loud and clear and the antagonist with a bleeding head ran away and never to come back. I was proud of my brother.

A typical home in our neighbourhood in 1960’s

I remember spending a lot of time in the shop helping. I was then seven or eight, and I was pretty good at serving the customer, always polite and helpful and the customers liked me a lot. I was always generous when serving the customer, often I would give a little more in the portion, at this rate I could never be a successful businessman. I remembered all the names of the products that were on the shelves and their retail price. The neighbourhood was too poor to offer us the opportunity of making any decent profit for the effort put in. We were selling items that carried a very low retail value and very low profit margin. I often heard my mother sighing that it was a “one cent two cents” business and this was no exaggeration. The neighbourhood was incapable of buying our product in quantity and we had to split the product in tiny portion or unit. We had to sell cigarette per unit rather than by pack. Sardine was sold by piece and not by can. Butter was sold by the spoon and not by tin. Spices, a basic necessity for the local indigenous and Indian households, were divided in small portion and wrapped in pieces of newspaper in the shape of a small cone. Yet the shop had provided for the raising of a dozen siblings. My hat off to my mother and my brother.

Then one day a severe tropical cyclone hit the Island and I would witness many more in later years. It poured heavy with strong howling winds that destroyed or blew away many makeshift dwellings, leaving many inhabitants without a roof over their head. The Government quickly set up temporary shelters around town. The barren west side of our shop suddenly saw some building development and a large number of cyclone victims came to settle there. While the cyclone disrupted many lives, it was a blessing to us as our store became surrounded with new homes and new customers, and we were able to make a little more profit. One thing we did was to buy a refrigerator, an item that we could not afford before but which most other shops already had for a while. We were now able to provide much sought after cold drinks, Coca-Cola and Pepsi-Cola. We also made our own popsicle and our own best seller lemonade from “tamarind”, a sweet and sour fruit widely grown in the city. Our shop’s income and profit improved quite a bit. We were even able to build our own toilet within our private yard for our exclusive use, a much welcome addition to our home.

Damage done to a Church by cyclone in 1960’s