A portrait of my maternal grandmother drawn from memories, photographs and her diamond ring
They wink at me as they catch the light, like stars flickering in the night sky. Five small diamonds encased in a gold ring, shining brilliantly against the row of matte green jade on another ring I’ve pushed right down to the base of my little finger.
I rub my thumb over the rings; my maternal grandfather, who was a goldsmith, had made them.
“Kong-Kong used some lower-quality gemstones his clients didn’t want,” my mother tells me as she squints at the rings. I can feel their heft on my finger; at least he didn’t skimp on the gold.
“I remember this one!”
I point to the jade ring, which used to adorn my mother’s fourth finger along with her platinum wedding band. In my memory, I see Mum reaching into the hedge between our house and our neighbours to retrieve this very ring, and a much younger version of myself standing by, looking worried. Was this from seeing the angry red scratches on Mum’s hand when it re-emerged from the thorny bushes? Or from fear that I would be scolded for playing with it and losing it?
But I had never seen the diamond ring before. It had belonged to Por-Por, my maternal grandmother. Now it sits snugly on my little finger, barely moving when I try twisting it. I marvel at how petite she must have been.
I have very vague memories of Por-Por, who passed away from nasopharyngeal cancer when she was 55. She and Kong-Kong lived in Penang, but regularly made the overnight journey on the sleeper train to visit us in Kuala Lumpur. I was always happy to see her, Mum tells me, recalling how I would run to my grandmother the moment she arrived at our door. I hear a firm yet gentle voice calling me to eat my rice; was that Por-Por?
My grandmother died several days before my fourth birthday and my younger brother’s first. My youngest brother was born three years later and never had a chance to meet her. I remember being at Por-Por’s funeral, sitting behind my father, rubbing my face against the soft jersey cotton of his T-shirt as I tried to hide from the deafening din of drums and clanging cymbals, and the sword-waving Taoist priest jumping around a ferocious fire. He was just doing his job, trying to ward off evil spirits, but my toddler brain probably thought he was coming for me next.
My grandmother felt very present in our lives while we were growing up. She appeared in the many stories Mum told us of her childhood in colonial Penang; Por-Por taking my mother and her three siblings to school in a trishaw on rainy days; disciplining them with the cane whenever they misbehaved; buying their favourite tok-tok meen from the food hawker cycling past their home, announcing his presence by making his trademark tok-tok sound with a bamboo stick against a bowl.
Por-Por stares at me from a handful of monochrome photographs, her eyes soft, her slender neck half-concealed by the high collar of her samfu top. Her hair is neatly pulled back from her face, square-shaped like mine. She looks solemn in her photos, except for the ones where she’s holding me or Kiang, my cousin. Even then, she has just a glimmer of a smile, as if uncertain of what she should do in front of the camera. In her later images her small frame looks reduced further by illness. Yet her arms were strong enough to carry the chubby toddler that was me. Perhaps the ring was resized so it wouldn’t slide off her shrunken finger?
These photos are my only tangible reminders of Por-Por, and now this ring.
“You can have them if you want; take them back with you to England.”
Mum wraps both rings in tissue, stuffing them into a small brocade pouch before pushing it to me across the dining table.