I became Chinese on one Chinese New Year's Day in the 1950s. I cannot remember if it was 1953 or 1954. But no matter. My memory is sharp of the choice that I made, which I shall describe here.
Never mind how the National Registration Department will classify us, we are all of one kind in this country. Race, which is a specification in birth and death certificates in this country is at best a baseless idea unless you speak of the human race - the human race that was mothered by the 23 odd families in Africa whose offsprings spread out to populate the world.
I am an offspring of that small group of African families, born several thousand years after my ancestors began their Big Walk from that great continent. I was born in a town called Ipoh. The British who ruled this country, who also sponsored the notion of race to distinguish themselves from the millions they abused, had to classify me to keep me out of the hub of the empire. My birth certificate classifies my race as Indian, which shows how illiterate these people were who started dividing and classifying the human race.
My birth certificate, alas, stays with me as a collar around a dog’s neck. I am Indian in the school register and in the many certificates that continue to certify me, even after the three scores and ten years that I have walked on this earth. But to tell the truth, like dogs, I have never been conscious about how others classify me. I am neither Alsatian nor Labrador. My kinship is with people like me, who like the street-wise dogs who carry no tags but that one tag that I shall not mention here. It may offend my kinfolk. But I shall classify myself as I like, according to the seasons of celebration.
On that day I spoke about in the 1950s, my friend Mickey came to my house early in the morning and said, ‘my mother ask you to come eat at my house at 10 o’clock. You come ah.’ With that, he got on his small Humber bicycle and rode away. My mother who was behind me when I received the invitation was beaming with delight. ‘Oh’, she said, he is inviting you to celebrate their new year. I will iron a shirt for you.’
So, there I was in Mickey’s house, wearing my ironed shirt, sitting at a small dining table together some of his other friends. There was a plate before each of us with an assortment of cakes. Our smiles told of the happiness bursting in us. Nothing like this had ever happened to us before. Then, Mickey’s father appeared with bottles of F&N orange crush. He poured some into each of our glasses. Oh, the joy of the sound of the bubbles escaping from the glass and the tingle in the nose on the first sip. I could not imagine being happier than that moment.
Then on ‘Eat’ from Mickey’s mother, we grabbed at the food on the plates before us. I stuffed two white biscuits into my mouth that I had been eyeing all the time. At that moment time stood still. I thought I will die. My mouth was sealed. I could not move my jaws. The biscuits exploded in my mouth. I looked around to see if the others around the table were afflicted like me. But no, their jaws were all moving. They were not dying. I too was spared death. My saliva softened the biscuits and slowly released my jaws and then the taste of the biscuits hit me. I did not die but kept stuffing the other goodies on the plate. I can’t remember everything on that plate, but other than the white biscuits, I remember slices of the traditional rice cakes. It took a long time to chew them but it is even now the taste I most associate with Chinese New Year.
The feast continued for at least an hour. When we had finished, Mickey’s grandmother appeared bearing little red packets. I thought she was bringing more food, but I was mistaken. The red packets contained crisp blue notes bearing the face of King George the Sixth. One whole dollar! One dollar, the pocket money of two weeks!
I became Chinese on that day. My African ancestors have not caught up with me. Nor has the National Registration Department.
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