My Great Grandmother Essay

Madam Ong Siew Ngoh. My great-grandmother, whom I would have called: Jhor Jhor [a respectful Hokkien term for great-grandmother] was a graceful, noble lady who knew how fickle life was, changing one’s fortune with a simple snap of the fingers and how easy betrayal came to some. In my eyes, she was a remnant of the distant past and yet a reminder of the traditions and ideologies that still linger on, into our generation.
Her life seems almost impossible, something I could only imagine being in an Asian drama. Each story I hear never ceases to amaze me, leaving me in awe of her strength, courage, and perseverance. In all honesty, I am honored to be her great-granddaughter. I have always compared her to a heron. Maybe it’s the way she moved, so

It wasn’t much, but it was a start and hers above all else. Despite everything her little sister had done to her: her disloyalty, slander, and abuse, all those little things made her who she was. If my great-grandfather has never been poisoned, if she hadn’t been forced to sell off the plantation and her sister had never betrayed her, would she still be the same strong and courageous woman I heard about?
Mama would help Jhor Jhor by venturing into the forest to collect pieces of wood, stacking them so high above her head that she vanished from view. The woods are used to stoke the open fires. Imagine an old, traditional stove, made out of stones or bricks with a pot over the roaring fires. Once she was a little older and more careful around the kitchen, she carried the ingredients — noodles and hot soup — on a shoulder pole basket, walking street by street shouting ‘Laksa! Laksa! Kuih! Kuih!’
Allow me to go off on a tangent and elaborate more on the art of hawker stalls. Hawker stalls are essentially the oriental version of fast food. However, it’s not burgers and fries they serve, hawker stalls serve inexpensive meals such as noodles or rice dishes, fresh and ready within five minutes. The noodles, fishballs, broth and meat would all be cooked; it’s just the matter of putting them all together in a bowl and serving them

The last I saw KuKhong was at my eighteenth birthday. He sat with his siblings, but at a distance, shoulders a little slouched and with a drained smile. I remember those red packets I received from him when I was younger at New Years and birthdays, only — at most — RM5. You can imagine my surprise when I opened the red packet and found RM50 this time. I wasn’t the only one, though. Mama’s eyes widened, dashing off to find YahYah. It was then I learnt that he was not on speaking terms with his children. Mama said that he treated Jhor Jhor badly now he’s the one being treated badly by his own children, walking a mile or two in Jhor Jhor’s lotus feet so to