Funeral processions used to start at nearby Sago Lane. Here were the “death houses,” where the very sick were left waiting to die. Many funeral parlours were also found here. I was quite frightened walking by these “death houses,” but it was because of what the adults said about them. I had never been inside one, so I did not get to see the terminally ill people inside.
The funeral processions passing our window provided a distraction from our daily routine, not only for us children but also for the adults. It was another entertaining street scene, like the morning market stalls. Sometimes, things got ‘spiced up’ when one of our neighbours claimed to know who the deceased was. Then, we get the background stories of that person’s life. They could be the shopkeeper of one of the shops in the neighbourhood. And the stories could be about the colourful life of that person. Nothing was censored for the children’s ears. Perhaps the adults thought we did not understand everything they said. That was one way I learnt about the “secrets” of adult life. We learnt why we never saw the husband of a neighbour who lived with her son in our communal house. She was a “second wife”.
These processions usually came by after the market stalls had packed up after the morning business. We learned to tell whether the deceased was rich or poor by counting the number of floral wreaths and the number of bands accompanying the procession. Each band was preceded by someone carrying a banner, which indicated the clan association sending the band. They looked very much like the contingents at the Olympic Games; instead of athletes, musicians followed the banner. We became familiar with and hummed along to the tunes played by the bands, for their repertoire was limited. They were usually marches or some mournful tunes. But in more recent years, after I was no longer a Chinatown resident, the music played seemed more modern, and pop songs could be heard.
The lorry carrying the coffin could be very elaborately or simply decorated, another clue to the wealth of the deceased’s family. If there was a car with sugarcane tied to the top and moving slowly at the head of the procession, we knew the deceased had at least one son-in-law. A male mourner carrying a bamboo and paper contraption over his shoulder would be a son, usually the eldest. The female family mourners would be wailing loudly.
The type and colour of the mourners’ attire also indicated their relationship to the deceased, for example, whether a child was an “internal” grandchild, an offspring of the deceased’s sons, or an “external” grandchild, an offspring of his daughters.
We worked out the deceased’s age by subtracting three from the age stated on the blue and white lanterns. My Grandmother said that one year was added for Heaven, one for Earth, and one for self. The Chinese certainly seemed to prefer to appear to be older in death.
The funeral processions provided an avenue by which I learnt about one aspect of culture from the adults in my community.
Carena Chor
Carena Chor is a retired ITE lecturer interested in drama, reading, writing and craft work.
