Hóngbāo
Mr. Ung gives me a crinkled grin, flashing his single curved tooth between shrivelled lips. Reaching into his pocket, his gnarled knuckles clench and he pulls out a thin, red slip of paper, which he holds, dangling, in front of my eager eyes. This is a hóngbāo and it is Chinese New Year in Singapore.
Brightly painted shop-houses of sky blues and banana yellows line up regimentally side-by-side, squeezed for space in a crowded city. Decrepit, drooping women heave stacks of wilting cardboard taller than themselves on creaking trolleys as sweat oozes from their furrowed features in the piping sun. The oppressive heat does not deter them, nor does it stifle the frantic celebrations. Pot-bellied men clap and cackle from the shady alleys, wizening further with each New Year, while hungry maids gobble down fistfuls of salted chicken feet, a chewy treat. A troupe of beaming boys beat drums with gusto, sparking an embroidered dragon to scurrying life. Stamping its jiggling limbs, it weaves and wiggles; a lightning bolt of gold and white zigzagging cheekily through the teeming traffic. The tine and tinkle of silver bells from its fluttering underbelly float along on the wind, mixing merrily into the melodic melting pot. Everywhere children dart about with glee, clutching their slim scarlet envelopes, their own precious hóngbāos.
Jostling through the thrumming feet of the mythical monster, I creep to the open door of Mr. Ung’s abode. A murky miasma of wafting smoke puffs dreamily outwards, carrying with it the sweet perfumed scent of a dozen glowing joss sticks. ‘Ni hao’, comes a croak from within and as my eyes adjust to the gloomy interior, the silhouette of a scrawny figure drifts into view. He stands at a slant, bowing his ashy head in greeting, occupying the hushed centre of a cavernous room. Either side grandiose cabinets of gold and green, inscribed with brushed Chinese symbols, hold polished dishes of curling incense as ancestral Ungs look down from the peeling walls around.
Now the coveted slip appears; a glinting ticket into an unfamiliar world. Reaching across, I take the hóngbāo, a traditional gift linking aeons of generations, a vivid flame to protect against malicious spirits and a generous gesture from such authority. I can only whisper an awed, ‘Xie xie’, in gratitude, but Mr. Ung understands. He nods simply, precisely, once.
I swivel out onto the street, stepping gingerly through the stuffy air, the sleek hóngbāo jabbing at the muggy pall. Navigating the streaming crowds like an intricate hopscotch, the Wet Market is my destination. At one stall a man reaches into a ribbiting bucket for a fearful frog. Gripping the lips, he turns it inside-out as nonchalantly as one would unroll a sock. I unfurl the hóngbāo in imitation to reveal its crisp inner fortune. Ten dollars fan out into a vivid plumage.
Up ahead sprawl stalls of buoyant lanterns, dried-out octopus tentacles, fragrant tea leaves and twinkling trinkets, all of which my hóngbāo has brought me entry to.
