Introduction

Facing challenges in an increasingly colonial world, Chye Hoon, a rebellious young girl, must learn to embrace her mixed Malayan-Chinese identity as a Nyonya—and her destiny as a cook, rather than following her first dream of attending school like her brother.

Amidst the smells of chillies and garlic frying, Chye Hoon begins to appreciate the richness of her traditions, eventually marrying Wong Peng Choon, a Chinese man. Together, they have ten children. At last, she can pass on the stories she has heard—magical tales of men from the sea—and her warrior’s courage, along with her wonderful kueh (cakes).

But the cultural shift towards the West has begun. Chye Hoon finds herself afraid of losing the heritage she so prizes as her children move more and more into the modernising Western world.

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Excerpt

PROLOGUE 1938

‘In the days when genies roamed this valley of tin and tears, a warrior arose from among our people. His name was Hang Tuah, and he carried a magic sword.’

When I told my granddaughter the story of this fearsome warrior, it was a sultry Malayan afternoon, so hot that even the neighbourhood dogs would not settle. Through the open window came a baying chorus, eerie like sounds of the jungle, instead of the calming breezes I so loved, sublime breath of the gods that usually blew in from the limestone hills beyond.

The heat made me drowsy, though I could not sleep. I sat at the teak dressing table Mother had given me, now darkened by the years, counting what I had accumulated from a lifetime of toil: the silver and bronze coins with their raised heads of a white man, and the wads of bills, which I enjoyed tying and retying into thick bundles. By the time my granddaughter appeared, the tips of my fingers smelt of well-thumbed metal and greasy paper.

The heat had little effect on Lai Hin, who came in search of her afternoon tales with customary vigour. When she heard about Hang Tuah, she jumped down from her chair, placed both hands on her hips the way she had seen adults do and demanded, ‘Ah Ma, he where get that sword?’ (Paternal Grandma, from where did he get this sword?)

I had to smile. Lai Hin, then only three years old, was already displaying the verve for which I was famous. She unnerved the world with her intense almond-shaped eyes the way I had once done. My fire and fearless tongue were known throughout Ipoh, the Malayan mining town where I had lived most of my life.

This reputation had nearly been my downfall. Temper in a woman is only tolerated, never celebrated. Neighbours had hissed about the potent mix of blood in my veins, lethal for any girl. How would I ever find a husband?

Yet my spirit had served me well. In moments of despair I imagined myself a warrior with a golden sarong around my waist and metal glinting in my hands. Like the warrior Hang Tuah, I too was given a sword, but I had not recognised its powers until much later.

I told my son’s daughter that Hang Tuah lived many moons ago. He had served the Sultan of Malacca, a town south of ours, which was once rich. Because of Hang Tuah’s courage, the Sultan had sent him to visit a kingdom in Indonesia. There, Hang Tuah was challenged to a duel by a local warrior. The local man always carried the same sword – a magic sword, some said – and had never lost a fight.

Hang Tuah faced his opponent unafraid; he did not know what he was fighting. Only as the hours wore on did he realise he had an unusual adversary. The men were evenly matched. Neither would give in, and the hours turned into days. When seven days passed, the people knew they were witnessing the battle of their generation.

Weak with thirst, Hang Tuah fell to the ground. Before him was the Indonesian warrior, holding the curved blade which had killed so many. In those moments Hang Tuah thought of his home and the Sultan who had sent him. He remembered his family, his friends and the people who had kept faith. He could not die defeated in a foreign land.

Heaving himself off the ground, Hang Tuah leapt into the air so high that he stunned the local warrior. With desperate effort, Hang Tuah kicked the magic sword from his opponent’s hand. No one had ever before relieved the Indonesian warrior of his sword, and the blade came alive, making a swooshing noise as it twirled as if flung, swirling, whipping the air, cutting through wind, then swinging around like an echo and coming straight back for its owner’s heart.

The people, astonished, murmured Hang Tuah’s name with reverence. The kingdom’s ruler went down on his knees as he handed Hang Tuah the victim’s magic sword. ‘You have proven yourself worthy. This sword will now follow your command.’

My granddaughter’s eyes were wide open by then. ‘Ah Ma, this sword look like what?’

I told her the magic sword was a keris, a dagger carved in the Malay style, its blade curved into thirteen waves to better kill a man. Like others, this keris had been hammered, ground on stone, smoothed with beeswax, beaten with boiled rice, soaked in coconut water and rubbed with lime juice. But the keris had also been anointed in a secret substance that gave it magical powers.

‘Ah Ma,’ my granddaughter cried, her mouth agape, ‘I also want a magic sword!’

I looked at Lai Hin’s thick eyebrows, knotted in a frown, at those dark brown eyes drinking in my stories. Her ancestors would fight for her spirit, but so too would the white devils who had come to rule. They had taken first our land and then our souls. The battles my granddaughter faced would be fierce, and I had little faith our ancestors would win. Many of us did not even know what we were fighting.

It was my best friend, Siew Lan, who first put the idea into my head. ‘One day maybe . . . no more Nyonya,’ she had whispered, referring to our heritage. Siew Lan’s face, etched with deep lines, looked even sadder then, as if by saying the words she would hasten the end. She sipped tea as she said this, cradling in both her palms the Nyonya cup with pink borders and green dragons she loved. I only half listened, never imagining that our age-old practices would ever be forgotten.

Yet as I savoured the smells from our kitchen that afternoon, of ginger being sliced and coconut milk being steamed, as I listened to the scraping, pounding and grinding and saw in my mind’s eye the vivid blue of butterfly pea flowers smashed against black stone, I knew that what my friend had said was coming to pass. My eldest son, Weng Yu, Lai Hin’s father, had become lost. His dreams took him away. My hopes rested less with my son than with his daughter and the other little ones, who still clamoured to hear our stories.

‘Lai Hin,’ I said, ‘you must listen to Ah Ma. Then like Ah Ma you one day also will find your sword. This you must never lose.’

Stroking my grandchild’s hair, thick like mine, I resolved to pass on to her the wisdom of our ancestors. At this late hour the time had come for me to open up, to tell my stories to a scribe and speak my heart. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Have you read other novels set in Asia? In what way does The Woman who Breathed Two Worlds differ from other novels for you?

2. What did you like most about Chye Hoon and what did you like least?

3. A unique aspect of this novel is the way in which the author has chosen to change word order in parts of the dialogue. Did her use of colloquial dialogue help situate you more profoundly in Chye Hoon’s world or did you find the dialogue jarring?

4. What are the lessons you took away from this book?

5. “‘My friend, you wrong before that time,’ I said. ‘I no hate anyone – white skins people too, like us. But they put on airs here.’
Siew Lan muttered a protest, which I ignored. ‘Yes, I tell you! They look at me, they not really look – like I not there at all. Like I just thin air in front of them, invisible.’”
The conversation above, between Chye Hoon and her best friend Siew Lan, takes place shortly before the latter’s marriage to Stuart McPherson. Have you ever felt invisible in your own life? Conversely, have you had feelings of condescension towards members of the local population while travelling through non-Western countries? How do you think they felt about you?

6. Discuss the similarities and differences between Siew Lan and Chye Hoon. To what extent do you think Siew Lan was able to influence her friend?

7. Chye Hoon’s struggle to adapt to creeping Westernisation is epitomised by her suspicion of Western medicine and hospitals, especially where childbirth is concerned:
“In any case, babies were different: I could see no reason for not having them in the comfort of one’s own home. I had once had the misfortune of stepping into a hospital when I visited a sick Nyonya who was one of my customers, and I couldn’t imagine the indignity of lying in such a large room among strangers, being barked at by a doctor, a man, who told you to push . . . pu-u-sh . . . without ever conceivably knowing what your pain must feel like.”
Do you think her views have any validity?

8. What, if anything, in this novel surprised you?

9. Chye Hoon worked hard to feed, clothe and house her children but she failed to mould their characters. Do you agree or disagree with this statement?

10. The relationship between Chye Hoon and her eldest son, Weng Yu, forms a central focus in the story. Discuss her reaction when she learns of his attachment to a white woman, Helen, in the context of what you know about the world in the 1920s. What would you have done in Chye Hoon’s shoes?

Weblinks

»	Author's web site
»	Book review from Literary Dust
»	Book review from E.P. Clark
»	Book Review from Feminism in Cold Storage

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