THE EMPTIED TEACUP

The Teahouse’s siheyuan vibrated to the hum of cicada wings. But the cicadas could be louder, I thought—as a persistent jet of sentences streamed foul and piss-like into my ears. 

The mid-sized middle-aged man at the counter barely moved his thin lips, but the words rang loud enough. “Young lady, this is parent-hood. This is how dads do it—trying to stay insane.” 

I half-heartedly grunted in agreement, and continued sorting the new shipment of Qi Men Hung, Pu-Erh, and Oolong. The man had choiced Oolong—the black dragon. I set the kettle to boil and readied the tea set.  

Following my movements, he edged closer, cleared his throat, and earnestly went on. “Yalah, insanity. Living up to the pressure of all the expectations out there. Children now so sensitive summore, how to not ruin a childhood?" 

What a man, I thought. I hope his children are okay.

"By being insane enough to love you more than I love myself. Kisiao! Break the parent or break the child.” He fingered his ring restlessly. “The gods know that I move mountains to give my children more than what I had, you know.” 

He awkwardly shifted back into his seat. 

I stacked a fresh Pu-erh canister behind the Tie-GuanYin, and wondered if what he said was true for my father. 

I decided it was not. My father enjoyed his fingers in so many pies that he’d often forget his own one at home.

As the man caught his breath, I turned to the sound of lorries and hondas outside. They honked to the distant tenor belting out the maghrib—a surprisingly musical lilt compared to the monotonous drone of the past few days. 

Out the window across the narrow street sat mom and uncle Chang, tucked into the snug kaki-lima in front of their kopitiam with sleepy shutters. Were they done closing the shop? For a long moment as the sun sank down, shadows cut deep into slicked-back hair—only for the lamplight above them to sputter on, exposing bald rows raked into the sheen of grey. 

I squinted. Mom had her flask of tea in hand, while Chang pressed a cold Tiger can against his sweating temple. Mom, who was looking my way, wobbled her love-handles as she waved to me. They usually would've joined me by now.

The man resumed. “Young lady, look at me.” 

And I do. 

“I'm going to educate you today. I'm a teacher, professional. I'm telling you full disclosure, that you young flers will stop whining one day. Eat my words and digest properly. Once you marry and have children you must give your all. You must give back to your parents. That’s natural order.”

He enunciated by stabbing his finger at my face, and I noted that he had a silver band on. Where is this man’s wife? I frowned, exposing a smidge of my discomfort. I think he took offence. 

He glowered, and sharply waggled his finger. “Grow up. Make your father your mother your ancestor proud. Grab hold of yourself. Whack it, and money will come. See? Discipline it, and order will come. Set it on path, because you owe that little to your parents. No choice.”

The kettle whistled. I suppressed a sigh, and poured him his Oolong. 

“I want to ask you one thing, young lady.” He pushed his glasses up and sniffed. “In primary school, all the homework done in thirty minit, right?” 

“Sure,” I nodded. His child must be Einstein, I thought.

Hm. That’s not right. Einstein failed school.

The man clicked his tongue. “Then high school. Yes, busy schedule. But you finish work by night, and every day you have new beginnings. Then you go college, whole entire projects cram like crazy at the last minute and barely pass. Then working life, which slowly burns but you can quit when you like because,” he vaguely waved at the stocked shelves behind me. “Preevilege.” 

A brief silence. Punctuated with a sip, a sigh, and a muted clink of an enamel cup. My right eye twitched inward—which meant trouble.

“But then you see, for mothers, a child is like a group project that never ends. Fuish! You’ll have whole entire problems rising everyday like hell, and this one, no end in sight. You can’t simply abandon the project for a new one.” 

I raised my eyebrows. He grinned. “Yes, and then accidents happen. But I tell you, my wife took all  the children without the real idea of the workload, poor woman. Left-hook, uppercut and all until she pengsan.” He paused to dab the dribble off his chin.

“But I never pengsan. Even when they want to go down the path to shame, I whack them back on track. Want to get smart with me, I teach them respect. Tio-boh? They owe me millions, but that is life. I give them food. Water. Education." 

He attempted a contemplative whistle, but gave up halfway.

"See, even when they are ungrateful, when you become a parent, you must provide first. That is love.”

Or shortsightedness, I thought. He wiped steam off his glasses. His cup was almost empty, so I refilled his tea. 

Uncle Chang burped so loudly across the street that I swivelled my gaze out the window in an instant.

Under the glaring yellow lamplight, he crushed his now empty can and grunted, motioning at mom to finish the plate of siew yuk before the moths came to claim it. 

Deja Vu. I remember father lepaking with his friends just like this, but with mum pounding away in the outside kitchen. He and his brothers, cousins, and friends would simmer their political stories over siew yuk and red wine during election days on flimsy red plastic chairs. His face would be flushed, intoxicated with company.  

My uncle would toast him, the host— with the burning of a slight roast. “Don’t talk about purpose. Got real meaning in a piece of work meh? Why do we do things? Got any reason to even live until tomorrow anot?” Silence would greet the table, with several uncles solemnly nodding or shaking their heads.

“We don't know man! Nowadays go blaming politicians and their manifesto for what, being bloody hippocrates for what, right? If we think like them, we better be gungho enough to live like it, and be better than them at doing it. We don’t know, man! And that's okay. Bros do things for the heck of it first, and then insert meaning later.”

That was a sentiment that rang a death knell to my rationale. I had thought that adults did things with utmost certainty—they certainly went about their day completing their self-relegated duties with an attractively purposeful flair. It all rang hollow now.

“You don’t laugh, I tell you! When my bro here had his first boy, it happened because he didn't like to wear rubber. Power, lah. His father, not even 60 yet already have grandson!” 

I wasn’t my father’s first boy, but I was his firstborn. When I was shoved into the world, my cries boomed like a cannon—and my father boomed back in laughter, convinced that he had a loud, strong, son. When they handed me to him, he held me under his chin sharp enough to stab my belly, and greeted a daughter in such a torrent of tears and whimpers that I thought he was a woman. 

“And when relatives come to interrogate him, he tell his story lah. Later, the story turn here twist there until somehow the boy becomes a symbol of love to the wife. A smattering of chuckles sounded, along with the uncle’s roaring laughter who forgot how audible he was, even from the kids’ table. My brother began crying, and I remember boiling red with rage. I stood up, ran to their table and took a deep breath—

“Hello! Young lady.” 

I’m back in my Teahouse, with my hand half-extended, clenching the teapot. 

“Young lady, enough tea already.” the man blared. Piss words and crap sentences. I gripped the teapot harder.

“It’s not for you.” I managed to say. 

Then I breathed in.

I filled the cup, lifted it, and drank the scalding swirl of rich, dark redness. My mouth steamed. 

The man looked shocked. He should be.

“You’re wrong, by the way.” I seethed.

“With all due respect, children don’t owe their parents anything. You are the ones prematurely dragging us kicking and screaming into hell.” 

The man sat back, and frowned. “Young lady, you don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand. We don’t even owe you love, not when you don’t recognize what love is.” I heaved. “But we still feel it. We want to be loved beyond the bare minimum of what you give. You don’t want to understand, I get it, old prideful dogs don’t bother learning new tricks.”

“You say that you love your children so much, but it sounds as if you’re just treating them like living investments. Are they not their own human? Do they not belong to themselves? Did you stunt their lives before they could even enjoy one breath of fresh air away from your judgement?”

The man was shaking his head in contempt at this point, but I didn’t care. 

“Sir, I don’t know your children, but I just want you to know that they must be dying inside because I know how it feels to have a father like you.” 

“A father who made me want to destroy parts of myself instead of cultivating them, 

a father who made me cry so hard at night that I once promised myself that when I grow up, I won’t give him grandchildren, I won’t give him a single cent I earn, I won’t visit him, talk to him, or even look at him. 

I vowed to cut him off. Because that’s what he gets for using and abusing a child. 

It’s so easy to end the pain. Not by ending my life, no. I’d get good grades, a good job, and a good life. Without him.”

I felt a light touch on my shoulder. It was mom, her eyes peering as if to some faraway place. I looked behind her, and saw uncle Chang standing by the door. 

I stared at mom, but she stayed silent. Uncle Chang stood rooted in place, and looked smaller than usual. 

The man looked away, and placed ten ringgit on the counter. My fingers flew over the cash register, which clattered open, and I gave him his change. 

“Thank you for coming!” mom blurted as the man swept himself past Chang and out the door.

 I sat down, my tongue burnt. The cicadas have gone silent.