Pansy, in turn, cut squares of banana leaf for use as vessels to hold the potpourri for when a buyer made a purchase. The pliant banana leaf would be filled with the bunga rampay, then folded over and stitched with a short length of lidi, which came from the spine of the coconut leaf, to seal in the aroma and the potpourri till it was taken home and ready for use.
Pansy also threaded the small bunga melor and chempaka for the ladies who liked to wear flowers in their hair on special occasions. Strung up, the highly scented flowers could be weaved around the sanggul or chignon so that when the lady passed you, its gentle perfume would make you smile, and glance again at the wearer. Pansy’s Tamil neighbour too threaded flowers, particularly the bright orange marigolds into garlands which were normally used to drape the necks of Indian deities.
Suddenly their quiet village was assailed with the sounds of rapid chattering and bargaining, people talking in several languages all at once—Malay, Tamil, Hokkien and Teochew—sometimes even a combination in one sentence. Several of the town people spoke English to each other. It was very rare for the orang puteh, the whites, to visit their village. They did go to Tekka wet market in town for fresh foods, but for them to venture out of their comfort zone to visit rural markets and villages would require a special breed, like Francis Thomas, the school principal of St Andrew, who was famed for his social work and who visited Kampong Potong Pasir regularly, especially helping the people during the floods.
“Chapteh lessons, three cents! Chapteh lessons, three cents!” Hassim hailed in Malay, flourishing his homemade chapteh, chicken and duck feathers glued on a round base of rubber tyre cut-offs. At other times, he would offer goli lessons, hantam bola or kite-making. He was one of the children who had English tuition from Pansy, so he also did his sales pitch in fractured English.
“Here got teach chapteh lessons,” he said. “Only three cents. I teach you how to kick chapteh in air and stay there by more kicking kicking with instep of foot. Come try. Come try. Also buy homemade chapteh. Feathers fresh from duck and chicken!”
The town parents happily released their children to play games, as they went about with their shopping. Hassim, brown eyes gleaming, collected the money before giving instructions and a demonstration. The townie children looked a picture as they tried to turn the instep of their right naked foot skywards to kick the chapteh, their awkwardness earning giggles from the village children. Feet that were continually encased in shoes did not have the flexibility of feet accustomed to being bare. Plus the fact that townie children tended to sit on chairs so their hips were less flexible, making it hard for them to bend their knees or flex their feet. But the parents were pleased that their children had something to occupy them, as they searched out the various stalls, looking, ferreting and buying, limited only by the thought that they had to carry the purchases all the way down the country lanes to their smart cars. There was so much to choose from. No matter how rich people became, they still loved a good bargain, trying to beat down the hawker’s price.
“Apa? Satu ringgit? What? One dollar?” the voice would rise. “How can?”
“Wah! Mahal sekali! Very expensive. Murah sedikit, lah! Cheaper, cheaper.”
One Peranakan lady sauntered over to Kim Guek’s neighbour’s palette of fish, her amah following behind with the basket. Like many connoisseur nyonyas she did not just pick any fish; she picked it up to smell, prod and pinch, to test the fish’s firmness, lift its gills to see how red it was to ascertain its freshness, scrutinised the eyes to see how dull they were, to check how long since the fish had given up its spirit. She, like the other nyonyas, was known for her delectable dishes, so she applied the same stringent examination to everything she bought. But she was prepared to pay well.
“Oh, I got this salted fish from Kampong Tepi Laut,” a nyonya might say to impress her dinner guests in their posh mansions, not just because of the reputation of the product but also because of the difficulty of getting to the hidden village. It definitely reaped more admiration than saying she got the fish from Tekka, the wet market at Serangoon Road. “And as a special treat, I have for you today, Nyonya Kim Guek’s nasi ulam…”
“Wah!” her guests were known to respond admiringly.
People came in droves that day, despite the challenging village road. They were aware that by November, when the monsoon winds swept in, there would be reduced opportunity to get their choice of fish. One slightly overweight nyonya whispered to Kim Guek, who had a table next to Pansy, “Nyonya Kim Guek, what can you make for me to give to my husband? He’s been out too often and too late. I need to draw him back into my bedchamber…”
Pansy smiled, averted her eyes and concentrated on selling her bunga rampay. Its fragrance, despite the strong smell of fresh fish, drew the customers.
“Bunga rampay, tiga puloh sen! Bunga rampay, thirty cents!” Pansy called out.
She smiled with such positive vibes that people flocked to her stall to purchase it. Like her mother, she always had a nice word or two to say to her customers. People left her stall putting their noses to their bunga rampay and breathing in its fragrance. They were all smiling as if Pansy’s smile had rubbed off on them.
“Here’s ten dollars,” said a young, rotund boy who came up towards her table, chucking the notes onto the table towards
