Last Monday I lost my grandmother to that deadly plague called death. It was my first real experience losing someone really close to me.
My other three grandparents died when I was very young and all I remember are bits and pieces of the funerals of my two grandfathers and nothing of my paternal grandmother.
So excuse me this week if my column turns out to be a little bit self-indulgent. But hey, every writer will end up writing about his or her grandmother at least once (it ain’t cliched, it’s sweet!).
My grandmother was the one who thought me how to speak Cantonese. Apparently, as I was told, I could actually speak it fluently when I was very young.
I can’t really remember if it’s true or not, but now, my conversations in Cantonese are just fodder for my friends and colleagues to secretly record and upload to Instagram so they can have a laugh!
Once, I even got angry and screamed at a bank teller for calling me ‘hakchai’ which actually means ‘customer’ because I had mistakenly thought it meant ‘dark kid’! I’m never going into that bank again!
For those of you who don’t get the joke, go ask a Chinese to explain it to you. Then be friends with him or her and help foster better race relations in a time when the country really needs it. [Click to read the full article at English.AstroAwani.Com]