weave gracefully among the guests. Her hair was pinned up, a few gray wisps trailing down. She wore a silver-embroidered kebaya , an embroidered Peranakan blouse over a long embroidered skirt, which she had inherited from her mother. She looked quite youthful, moving around the room, serving sweets. Her figure was still as slim as a young girl’s.
“I wonder,” said Uncle Chachi, “if we will ever get our cup of tea.”
British Grandfather folded his arms. “The closest ones come last,” he said. “That is an immutable law with women.”
Uncle Chachi made a move on the Congkak board. He frowned. “Ah, I am going to lose,” he said. “Again.”
“You don’t pay proper attention,” Grandfather chided him.
Uncle Chachi glanced at the plum pudding. “All I want is a cup of tea,” he said, still eyeing Nei-Nei Down. “And a little peace and quiet, perhaps.”
“I know what you want,” Grandfather said. His voice snapped out, like the crack of a whip. Never, not even in my most disobedient childhood, had I heard this in his voice. “But you will have to wait your turn.”
Uncle Chachi was helping himself to a serving of plum pudding when British Grandfather spoke. He stopped with his plate hanging in midair, the glistening pudding suspended from a silver jelly server. I thought he would make some joke about his sweet tooth. But Uncle Chachi’s face turned gray. He lowered the plate to the table and set down the jelly server.
“I have always wanted what was best for the family,” he said. “Only that. Always that.”
“Oh, Charles,” said British Grandfather, in a changed voice. “—We have been the best of friends, haven’t we?”
The two old men embraced each other tearfully. Christmas certainly was a very strange holiday.
TEN
Never Well Since
T here is in the science of homeopathy a remedy based on the symptom “never well since.” The cure was Natrum muriaticum—an attenuated tincture of sea salt—indicated also, Uncle Chachi declared, for Grandfather’s desire to be alone, his harping on the past, his forgetfulness, headaches, sore throat, and general weakness.
Uncle Chachi believed in homeopathy, like many men of his generation who had been educated in England. King George himself, he pointed out, turned to homeopathic remedies, as did the entire royal family in times of need. I think Uncle Chachi never altogether forgave himself for allowing allopathic doctors to treat my parents and brother during the 1918 flu pandemic. Homeopathy, he swore, would have kept them alive. And it was true, statistically speaking, that more homeopaths survived in 1918 than those who consulted the doctors and went to the hospitals.
Grandfather was never well again after Christmas. He woke the day after our feast with a parched throat, fever, and a burning desire to be out in the fresh air—even when the monsoon poured down around him. He was constantly begging poor Danai to wheel him outside, or at least to seat him by an open window, while Nei-Nei scurried around wrapping his throat in scarves, wheeling him inside, and slamming all the windows closed.
After a few days of Uncle Chachi’s remedies and Nei-Nei’s dosing with bitter herbs and winter soups, Grandfather seemed to rally a little—but not entirely. “Never well since.” Some days his memory seemed shattered; he thought we in the palace were running a boarding school, and Nei-Nei Down, he said, was too harsh a mistress. He asked me for recitations, and I tried to oblige, dredging up all the old poems I could remember from childhood, though the pieces he requested were hopelessly old-fashioned. Nor could he for the life of him understand why I was not better schooled in Latin and Greek.
“What kind of a madhouse are we running here?” he would demand.
We ran in circles around him. Old Sanang roused herself to incredible efforts. Many nights, I would find her sitting upright in a chair outside his room, fighting off sleep, listening
“I wonder,” said Uncle Chachi, “if we will ever get our cup of tea.”
British Grandfather folded his arms. “The closest ones come last,” he said. “That is an immutable law with women.”
Uncle Chachi made a move on the Congkak board. He frowned. “Ah, I am going to lose,” he said. “Again.”
“You don’t pay proper attention,” Grandfather chided him.
Uncle Chachi glanced at the plum pudding. “All I want is a cup of tea,” he said, still eyeing Nei-Nei Down. “And a little peace and quiet, perhaps.”
“I know what you want,” Grandfather said. His voice snapped out, like the crack of a whip. Never, not even in my most disobedient childhood, had I heard this in his voice. “But you will have to wait your turn.”
Uncle Chachi was helping himself to a serving of plum pudding when British Grandfather spoke. He stopped with his plate hanging in midair, the glistening pudding suspended from a silver jelly server. I thought he would make some joke about his sweet tooth. But Uncle Chachi’s face turned gray. He lowered the plate to the table and set down the jelly server.
“I have always wanted what was best for the family,” he said. “Only that. Always that.”
“Oh, Charles,” said British Grandfather, in a changed voice. “—We have been the best of friends, haven’t we?”
The two old men embraced each other tearfully. Christmas certainly was a very strange holiday.
TEN
Never Well Since
T here is in the science of homeopathy a remedy based on the symptom “never well since.” The cure was Natrum muriaticum—an attenuated tincture of sea salt—indicated also, Uncle Chachi declared, for Grandfather’s desire to be alone, his harping on the past, his forgetfulness, headaches, sore throat, and general weakness.
Uncle Chachi believed in homeopathy, like many men of his generation who had been educated in England. King George himself, he pointed out, turned to homeopathic remedies, as did the entire royal family in times of need. I think Uncle Chachi never altogether forgave himself for allowing allopathic doctors to treat my parents and brother during the 1918 flu pandemic. Homeopathy, he swore, would have kept them alive. And it was true, statistically speaking, that more homeopaths survived in 1918 than those who consulted the doctors and went to the hospitals.
Grandfather was never well again after Christmas. He woke the day after our feast with a parched throat, fever, and a burning desire to be out in the fresh air—even when the monsoon poured down around him. He was constantly begging poor Danai to wheel him outside, or at least to seat him by an open window, while Nei-Nei scurried around wrapping his throat in scarves, wheeling him inside, and slamming all the windows closed.
After a few days of Uncle Chachi’s remedies and Nei-Nei’s dosing with bitter herbs and winter soups, Grandfather seemed to rally a little—but not entirely. “Never well since.” Some days his memory seemed shattered; he thought we in the palace were running a boarding school, and Nei-Nei Down, he said, was too harsh a mistress. He asked me for recitations, and I tried to oblige, dredging up all the old poems I could remember from childhood, though the pieces he requested were hopelessly old-fashioned. Nor could he for the life of him understand why I was not better schooled in Latin and Greek.
“What kind of a madhouse are we running here?” he would demand.
We ran in circles around him. Old Sanang roused herself to incredible efforts. Many nights, I would find her sitting upright in a chair outside his room, fighting off sleep, listening
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