Popagandhi

The eldest cousin on my father’s side of the family will soon wed her high school sweetheart, at the ripe old age of 27. As far as we were concerned, they were already ‘married’ — rings and flats and all — for at least 2 years.

But not even a certificate from the registrar of marriages could convince their families, our elders. Forget about till-death-doth-us-part sort of technical legalese. Nobody’s ever ‘married’ until a Chinese restaurant is booked and shark’s fin is served to an array of associations which would put Friendster to shame — where everybody is invited, and I mean everybody, from the cousin four times removed to the great god-mother who earned herself an invitation simply from being alive at age 92.

To compound the state of affairs — this wasn’t any old Chinese wedding dinner. This was, first and foremost, a Teochew wedding. The matrimony reinforcing the strengths of our proud dialect group, and which will be further responsible for catapulting the instances of the “Tan” / “Chen” family name into even more numbers than is already the case (!).

So the story goes: good Teochew girl (honours, Chemistry, now civil service), weds high school sweetheart — good Teochew boy (teacher). It helps that he speaks our language — how else can one integrate into an extended family if you do not already share their 8 dialectal tones? The setting: food-tasting at prospective dinner venue. Theme: gaudy, imperial. Top Chinese restaurant at top hotel. Furnished with faux rock finish at entrance, gradually leading into grand Chinese imperial-court type with waitstaff in elaborate costumes (think TVB period soaps). The bride’s father-in-law descends upon the empty seat next to her, heavy with his mental list of instructions and objectives. Before he is able to launch into this, my father steps in — acknowledging his niece’s motionless, soundless yelp. They swap seats discreetly, mid-conversation, whilst I distract the man with antics of my own (I’m opposite him making large, exaggerated movements, with our youngest cousin as a prop).

In safety now, the bride confides — the father-in-law-to-be is a sweet man, with whom she has been acquainted for many years. Yet on this issue alone, he could be unbearable. We eavesdrop on the elders discuss procedures. Tell her, says the father-in-law to the bride’s mother, she has.. she must.. she ought to. Yes, replies the mother, she is a good girl.. she’s already.. she will.. I’ve bought her the set, we’ll be looking at the gold next.

We all know the gold is the most important part of any Teochew marriage. If you hope to marry a Teochew girl (this author included), you can forget about it if you refuse this — no question about it. The four points of gold (si dian jin, or si diam kim) is compulsory. A pair of earrings, a necklace, a bracelet. Some years ago, I’d caused an uproar by announcing I’d like to have something in platinum instead from Tiffany, preferably, rather than the usual stuff from Tian Poh.

Their conversations went from the traditional into the incredulous. The mother revealed she had been in Chinatown shopping for a chamberpot for her daughter, and said so without batting an eyelid. All of us, my own mother included, were wide-eyed at this: a chamberpot? I was under the impression my generation was among the last to remember the chamberpot — the tam pui, as it is more affectionately known. Heavy, fragile pot in the shape of a glorified vase; usually in hues of red, white and embellished with elaborate floral motifs in Chinese style. The last of us vividly recall sitting on one before the age of six, while concerned family members attempted to solve our constipation problems, in DIY fashion. Even in those days, we had proper toilets for all other purposes. And in 2004 a mother buys a chamberpot as part of her daughter’s wedding set?

As if she noticed my fear, my mother tells me she fully expects I move into a house with a modern bathroom if I do marry, that she does not endeavour to hunt down chamberpots for me in antique shops, Chinatown or not. For that, I had to tell her I loved her.

As is always the case before, during and after a Chinese wedding, conversation topics among guests always range between the shark’s fin and who’s going to get married next. Next in line, if chronology and age is supposed to be any indication of the likelihood to marry, was my brother (24), cousin (also 24). I came in next at 19, and they didn’t spare my 14 year old cousins either. The bride’s sister declared she isn’t the least interested in marrying soon as her career came first and didn’t afford her the time or opportunity to meet good men either, she had the sneaking suspicion it would be a long time before that could happen.

I kept silent, not knowing how to translate the reality only I knew — that even if I were to marry, regardless of timeline, next year, the year after, five years from now, ever: it would be nothing like this. That something as simple as the gender of my spouse-of-choice would rule out, by default, the grand dinner, the invited guests, the elaborate menu — and more devastatingly, the smiles on the faces of our families and the people we love.

And that is assuming we can marry at all.